


How Are You Going to ...

by danger_floof



Series: Meet Your Bride [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (Bucky's backstory), Anxiety, Assassins with a heart of gold, Banter, Blind Date, Canon don't talk to me about canon, Clint & Bucky BroTP, Competent Darcy Lewis, Darcy is not having any of your shit, Darcy is super good with tech, Drunken Flirting, F/M, FBI agent Darcy Lewis, First Kiss, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, I heard you like meet-cutes so I put a meet-cute in your meet-cute, Innuendo, Making Out, Meet-Cute, Past Mind Control, SHIELD Agent Darcy Lewis, Snark, So many meet-cutes, Social Anxiety, Steve Rogers' amazing disappearing accent, Team Bonding, WinterShock 5ever, assassin!darcy, mentions of canon-typical violence, roommates!Steve and Bucky, undercover Avenger!Bucky, vague reference to Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-01-06 12:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12211440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danger_floof/pseuds/danger_floof
Summary: How, how, HOW will you meet your bride?One short WinterShock meet-cute fic for each of the scenarios mentioned in Jason Webley's wonderful song"Meet Your Bride."





	1. When She Offers You Her Arm

“Why do we gotta do this again?” Bucky Barnes growled at 7 a.m. on a Saturday in October. It was a beautiful day: blue sky, white puffy clouds, just a hint of autumn chill in the air. Exactly the kind of morning he loved to sleep through.

Yet here he was in the living room instead, yanking on a hoodie and pointedly ignoring the hair tie Steve offered him.

The punk rolled his eyes and shoved the hair tie into Bucky’s pocket. Wasn’t too long ago Bucky would have pulled a knife on him for doing that. Now he just glared, and was secretly proud of his progress. “Because Dr. Foster and her assistant are very nice ladies who use very heavy lab equipment, and your ma raised you right,” Steve said in the sing-song he’d been using to convey that Bucky was an ass since 1928.

“Them being nice don’t mean we gotta do all the heavy lifting,” Bucky argued, but he trailed Steve out to the elevator anyway. “Women don’t need men for that any more. There was a whole movement, I read up on it. Women’s Liberation. They get equal pay and kill their own spiders.”

“You don’t kill your own spiders,” Steve pointed out. “You make me do it.”

“Yeah, but I always did,” Bucky said triumphantly. His nine-decade history of making Steve hit spiders with a shoe had nothing to do with Women’s Lib or him being allowed to (please baby Jesus) go back to sleep — but sometimes, if he acted smug enough, Steve forgot that Bucky hadn’t actually won the argument.

No such luck this time. Steve rolled his eyes again as the elevator dinged. “Just get in, jerk.”

They rode down to sublevel B in silence — Bucky’s sleepy and pouty, Steve’s annoyed. When they got there, the loading dock in the residents’ parking garage was empty.

“Oh look, see, nobody here, guess we can just go back to —” Bucky started, but Steve grabbed him by the hood and dragged him out of the elevator. Hoods were terrible inventions. Worse than useless in a fight — might as well give your opponent a handle.

‘Course, the fact that a hoodie was bad gear for a fight was exactly why he wore one every day. Same with the hair. Helped remind him that he wasn’t here to do any fighting.

He let Steve tow him, protesting half-heartedly, to a beat-up van in one of the parking spots. It was parked facing the elevator, but as they came around the back, Bucky saw that the back doors were open. He leaned around Steve to take a look, and gaped.

There were two women in the back. One was cute enough: short, skinny, big dark eyes. The other was a bombshell, all soft curves and dark curls and red lipstick on a mouth that would have earned him at _least_ five Hail Marys if he was still Catholic. She was glaring down at a big metal box like it had done her some kind of personal injury.

He pursed his lips in a silent whistle and elbowed Steve.

Steve pinched him, but there was a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. _Told you so,_ he mouthed, which was a damn lie because he never said anything about one of the ‘very nice ladies’ being a gorgeous brunette with curves for days. Bucky was going to yell at him later about omitting mission-critical information.

Steve’s smile widened, and he directed it at the short woman, who was trying to pick up something that looked like a toaster with a thyroid problem. “Morning, Dr. Foster! Thor said you could use some help setting up the lab.”

“Huh?” the woman blinked at them, her expression vague. Bucky realized after a second that she had no idea who either of them was and also didn’t care. That was new. Kind of refreshing, actually. He decided he liked her.

“Steve,” said Steve, his voice full of suppressed laughter. “We met when you toured the facility last week?”

She looked guilty. “Oh sure, uh, Steve,” she said. “Of course. I remember.”

Bucky snickered under his breath. She was a terrible liar.

Steve elbowed him. They shared a rueful glance. This was just like 1941, except that Steve was taller and Bucky was part robot. “So, do you need help?” Steve asked when the doctor showed every sign of going back to her mutant toaster.

“Oh! Yes, please. Could you take the waveform collapser module and the quantum spectrometer upstairs? Darcy can show you where to put them, right Darce?” She looked at the pin-up, who showed no signs of hearing her. “ _Darcy!_ ”

“ _What?_ ” The girl wheeled around, still glaring. “Janey, I swear to god, it is 7 am and I haven’t had nearly enough coffee for you to take that tone with —oh.” She stopped short as she saw that they weren’t alone. A pair of pretty blue eyes behind thick-framed glasses took in Steve, and her eyebrows rose a little. Then she looked at Bucky and they rose further. “Wow. Did you guys get a two-for-one deal on muscles or what?”

Steve’s neck turned red. Bucky choked on a laugh.

“He did,” he said. “I’m the bargain basement version. Whaddaya need moved, doll?”

“The waveform collapser module and the quantum spectrometer,” Dr. Foster repeated, a little slower, like that was going to make the words make any kind of sense.

Bucky raised his eyebrows and gave her his best politely blank stare. He hoped it wasn’t too murderous. Sometimes he still got those confused.

“The big metal box and that spidery-looking thing with all the pipes coming out of it,” the pin-up — Darcy, he reminded himself — translated with a grin.

Bucky nodded and shot her a smile back. He swung himself into the van and went for the metal box. “Spidery-looking things are your area,” he told Steve over his shoulder.

“What? C’mon, Buck, it’s not even a real spider,” Steve protested, but he was already moving to pick it up.

Bucky got an arm under the box and lifted, surprised when it took actual effort. The damn thing was heavy, even for a juiced-up cyborg. Even if it hadn’t been for Darcy, Bucky couldn’t have been too mad about helping. Both women were so tiny, carrying this damn thing would take six of them. “After you, miss,” he told Darcy. Steve wasn’t wrong: his ma had raised him right. He just chose to ignore that sometimes.

She looked surprised for a second, then picked up a cardboard box labelled _Relativity Equations + Pop-Tarts_ and led them back to the elevator.

“I gotta say, pal,” Bucky said when the elevator doors closed behind them, “I never thought I’d see another dame act like she didn’t know you were alive.”

“Ouch,” Steve said, but he was grinning. Bucky had made coffee for Natasha enough mornings to know that Steve wasn't likely to be broken up about any other woman ignoring him.

“Don’t take it personally,” Darcy said, in a consoling tone. “Jane doesn’t notice much outside of the lab. Also, y’know, she’s dating Thor. You guys are cute but you’re only human.”

"Hey," Bucky said, not sure why he felt annoyed. "We're not _only_ human." 

"Sure," Darcy said, and patted him on the head with her free hand. 

Steve gave them both a pained look. “Shut up, Buck,” he said, and hefted the pipes again as the elevator dinged its arrival. “Ugh, what does she make these things out of, lead? Is there anything heavier than lead?”

“Aw, Stevie, ignored by a girl and now something’s too heavy for you?” Bucky walked out first and turned his head to smirk back at Steve. “It’s like old times all over ag —” Something caught the toe of his boot — an electrical cord, laid out across the floor — and he staggered a little, the box tipping.

“Whoa, easy there, buddy!” Darcy exclaimed, dropping her box with a thud. “You got it? Need an arm?”

Bucky lowered the box to the ground, then straightened up and pushed back the sleeves of his hoodie. “Yeah,” he said, deadpan. “Have you seen mine?”

Her eyes went from his face to his metal arm. Her mouth made a silent O as she worked out who he was. He waited for her to pull back, stammer apologies, maybe make some excuse to run back to the van and stay there.

Instead, her gaze lifted back to his face, and one eyebrow rose. “Did you check Switzerland?” she said.

At their wedding, Bucky will say that he fell in love with her at that moment. It just took him a while to realize it because he was laughing so hard.


	2. When She Breaks Into Your House One Night (and sets off the alarm)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect, it wasn't the greatest time to practice her lock-picking skills.
> 
> Then again, maybe it was.

In retrospect, it wasn’t the greatest time to practice her lock-picking skills.

For one thing, she was in Avengers Tower, home to the world’s highest per-capita number of Deeply Traumatized Super-People. For another, it was two a.m. For a third thing, she was drunk.

On the other hand, none of the super-people were here right now, because of something something fate of the world. And she’d lost her keys. And she actually did her best lock-picking work while drunk. Exhibit A: two bobby pins and a library card later, the door gave a happy little _click!_ and swung open. HA! See? Nothing wrong with a girl breaking into her own apartment.

Only, the couch was in the wrong place, and when she stepped through the door for a closer look, she tripped over a pair of men’s combat boots. As a light began to flash and mechanical voice chirped, “ _Intruder. Intruder,_ ” she realized that this wasn’t, exactly, her apartment. Per se.

There was a crash from the hallway and a familiar voice yelled a word she didn’t even realize Captain America knew. (Or was he saying ‘buck?’ But why would he be talking about deer?) 

Oh good. The super-people were back, too.

Two men came running out of the hall and skidded to a halt at the sight of her lying in their foyer. Standing up seemed like a lot of effort, so she just craned her neck to look up at them. One of them was indeed Mr. Apple Pie himself, all big and blond and _oh damn_ not wearing anything but boxers and the shield. The other man was dark-haired, blue-eyed, and equally built. She gave him extra hotness points for the high cheekbones and gorgeous abs, but deducted some because he was wearing pants.

“D-Darcy?” Cap said, rubbing his eyes. He walked over to a panel on the wall and tapped something that made the light and noise stop.

“Oh … ah, hi Steve.” Darcy gave Captain America a little wave, trying not to look at his boxers. Were those Iron Man print? _Don’t look don’t look._ She turned to the other guy. “Friend of Steve.” Then she looked closer — hottie with a body, whose long dark hair didn’t do a damn thing to hide his pouty mouth, hanging out at 2 am — and amended, “Possible booty call of Steve.”

“What?” Steve said.

The hottie snickered. “In his dreams, doll. Who the hell are you?”

“Darcy Lewis. I live in apartment 2801. What apartment is this?” 

“2901,” Hottie said.

“Oh. That makes sense. Nice to meet you, 2901.” She rolled over and stuck a hand up for him to shake. He took it, but pulled her to her feet instead. She swayed a little and he put his other hand on her shoulder. She yelped. “Cold!”

He yanked the hand back, and she realized it was made of metal. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and he looked sad. Nobody that pretty should be so sad.

“No, no, it’s okay!” She fumbled around until she found the hand and put it back on her shoulder. “See, it’ll warm up quick. Metal is more condack - con - something with duck in it.”

“Conductive?” Hottie said. His voice sounded strangled, and when she looked up, he was staring at her like she had two heads. But he didn’t take the hand away.

“Yeah, that!” she grinned up at him, and after a second, his mouth twitched upwards a little.

“Darce, you’re drunk,” Steve said gently.

“Yep!” She grinned at them both. “An’ I lost my keys, so …” she reached back and pulled another bobby pin out of her hair. “Ta-da!” A few pieces of hair fell down, and she blew upwards to push them off her face.

“You broke in here with a bobby pin?” Hottie said, staring again. His mouth was open. Ooo, pretty. She tapped his lower lip with one finger, just to see how soft it was (very), and it snapped shut. She sighed.

Steve was making a weird snorting noise, and his shoulders were shaking. Hottie turned his head to glare at him, but he didn’t stop.

“ _Two_ bobby pins. And my library card,” she said. “Hey, where is that, anyway? If I lose it I can’t get books.”

The snorting noise got louder.

“You broke into _our_ apartment,” Hottie said slowly, “with a bobby pin and a _library card_. Who _the hell_ —” His voice was rising, and Steve stopped snorting and frowned.

“It’s okay, Buck,” he said. “I know her. She works downstairs with Foster and Banner, she’s a lab assistant.”

“I make Pop-Tarts and duct tape stuff,” Darcy confirmed.

Hottie shot her a glare. She thought it was probably supposed to be scary, but it just made his mouth look extra pouty and biteable. “How does a lab assistant know how to pick locks in the most secure building in the damn world?”

“Natasha,” Darcy said, rolling her eyes because _duh_. “She said I should be able to take care of myself in case of, you know, kidnapping.” His mouth was still doing that thing. She gave in to the whisperings of tequila and shot him a glance from under her lashes. “I could bring you to your knees with a bobby pin and a library card, too.”

Steve choked.

Hottie pulled back and narrowed his eyes for a second. Then his gaze slid down over her body, leaving a path of goosebumps behind it. One corner of his mouth turned up into a smirk that made her swallow hard. “Doll,” he said, his gravelly voice low, “if you want me on my knees, all you gotta do is say please.”

“Ooookay,” Steve said, his voice a little high. “I’m just gonna, uh, go and … goodnight!” There was a faint clang as he put the shield down, and then a door clicked shut.

Neither of them looked away as he left. Hottie’s metal thumb was tracing little circles on Darcy’s shoulder.

“You got a name?” she purred. “You know, in case I need it later.”

“Bucky,” he said, his breath ghosting over her lips. Then he lifted his hand off her shoulder to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, and she swayed.

Oh right. Tequila. “I’m fine,” she said, but even she could tell it was a terrible lie.

Bucky pulled back and gave her a rueful smile. “I tell you what, doll,” he said. “Let’s go break into your place so you can sleep it off. If you still have a use for that name when you wake up, you know where to find me.”

“Okay,” she said, and pulled his arm around her shoulder so she could lean on him as they walked down the hall.

***

The next morning, Darcy stumbled into the lab and winced, wondering if her head would explode before or after she went blind. She wished she could remember more about last night. She’d met the hottest guy in the world, but how? Where? And why didn’t she sleep with him?

“Darce,” Jane said from her desk, “do you want to tell me why there was a library card and a lock-picking kit taped to the door of the lab this morning? Also, what does 2901 mean?”

Darcy straightened up and grinned, headache suddenly unimportant. “It means I’m taking a long lunch,” she said, grabbing the little pile of objects Jane was pointing to. “Don’t wait up, Janey!”

“It’s 8 am!” Jane said, but Darcy was already gone. Bucky’s name wasn’t going to scream itself.


	3. Will You Rush to Embrace Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky needs a distraction to keep cover and complete the mission. The cute brunette he grabs might be a little more than he bargained for.
> 
> _“Play along,” he hisses into her ear. “I’m not going to hurt you.”_  
>     
>  _“You’re damn right you’re not,” she whispers back, and he feels the metal prongs of a taser press against his stomach._

Bucky barely gets a look at the brunette with the glasses who’s just come into the bar before he’s rushing across the room to greet her. “Hi, baby!” he says, loud and happy, pulling her into his arms. “Play along,” he hisses into her ear. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She goes stiff but doesn’t pull away. “You’re damn right you’re not,” she whispers back, and he feels the metal prongs of a taser press against his stomach.

He pulls back a little bit so he can get a look in her eyes. They’re big and blue with thick lashes — and oddly, there’s not a trace of fear in them. If anything, she looks a little amused. At first glance she’s utterly unthreatening, civilian-soft in an oversized sweater and bright pink lipstick, but now he sees a faint hardness about her: the brittle edge of someone who’s seen combat. This may have been a bad call. On the other hand, she hasn’t tased him yet, which seems like a good sign.

“What exactly is your plan here, _babe?_ ” she says mockingly, and he realized he’s been staring too long.

 _Jesus. Get it together, Barnes._ He tugs her toward the bar, lacing their fingers together. “Don’t look to the right,” he murmurs.

“You’re not the boss of me,” she says teasingly, at full volume, but she doesn’t look to the right.

The table of Hydra goons, who were just starting to shift and murmur about the long-haired guy sitting alone at the bar, settle down. The Winter Soldier always works alone — the idea that he’d have an accomplice is outside their understanding. As long as he’s with the girl, he should be under their radar.

Still, he can’t do anything to screw up now or it’ll blow the whole op. “The hell I’m not,” he says aloud, careful to make it light and laughing. “Come have a drink.” He waves her to the stool next to his, leans in as if to nuzzle her neck, and whispers, “Anyone here know you, sweetheart?”

“That’s not murder-y at all,” she mumbles back.

He narrows his eyes at her, just a little. “Answer the question.” He thinks of the taser and adds, “Please.”

She sighs and leans her head on his shoulder, a few stray curls tickling his neck. “No. No one’s going to blow your cover, Hot ’n’ Scruffy. But you owe me an explanation.”

“Later,” he lies. “Promise. What do you want to drink?”

“My usual,” she tells him as the bartender comes within range, eyes sparkling a challenge.

Bucky can’t help but smile. “Another beer for me, and a gin and tonic for the lady,” he says. When he looks back at her, she lifts her eyebrows a little, impressed. For some reason, that makes him feel better than he has in … a while. The drinks come, and she takes a long gulp. It’s the first sign he’s seen that she’s less than perfectly calm. He feels a little guilty, but reminds himself that this is important. Lives are at stake. 

It’s 9:50. The buyer for the Chitauri weapons should be here at ten. All he has to do is keep under the radar for another ten minutes, and then he can get back to his life and let the girl get back to hers.

He props his elbows on the bar and leans in, smiling with intent like he would if she really was his girl. “You got a name, sweetheart?”

She looks up at him under her lashes, and for the first time it really hits him that she’s beautiful. Those eyes, that creamy skin, full mouth … and then there’s the curves, which he doesn’t dare even think about if he wants to keep his mission focus. “Sure,” she says, “but I don’t give it out to guys who shanghai me in bars. You?”

“Sure,” he echoes. “You can call me Charlie.”

“I can,” she agrees, and takes another long drink. “But it’s not your real name, so I won’t.”

He shrugs, smiles a wry ‘got me’ smile, but doesn’t apologize. There’s a long silence — too long, any guy who was on a date with this girl would fall all over himself to talk to her. “Um,” he says at last, “you catch the new episode of Dog Cops last night?”

“Yes, and I can’t _believe_ they arrested Sergeant St. Bernard!” It must have been the right topic, because all the jaded suspicion drains out of her in an instant. She puts down the drink and gestures wildly, eyes wide with indignation. “It’s so obvious he was framed by the cat mafia!”

“Aww, c’mon, doll,” Bucky says. “I like St. Bernard as much as the next guy, but he was dirty for sure.”

She gasps and shoves playfully at his chest. “How dare you, heathen? When he put his life on the line to save Captain Doberman!”

“Once,” Bucky points out. “Three seasons ago. And he had to know that —” He flicks his eyes up as the door opens again. There he is: gray suit, briefcase, bad comb-over. The buyer is here early. “—that everyone would know if he didn’t,” he continues, but his focus isn’t on the conversation anymore.

“Heathen,” the girl mutters again, but he can tell her heart’s not in it either.

His phone buzzes in his pocket: one short, two long. Go time. He takes the girl’s hand and pulls her close. The goons have a line of sight on them, so he actually does nuzzle her neck this time. She jumps a little, but lets him. She smells good, like peaches and vanilla. 

“Okay,” he breathes, trying not to get distracted. “This is about to get ugly so I need you to listen close and do what I tell you. In ten seconds, get up like you’re going to the bathroom. Turn left at the end of the hall, go out the back door, and run. Don’t come back.”

She leans back and looks at him, her eyes very serious. “I’m not going to get that explanation, am I,” she says, and it’s not a question but he shakes his head anyway. “And I’m not going to see you again.” Her tone is musing. Then she seems to come to some kind of decision and nods once. “Be right back, babe,” she says at normal volume.

She stands up as if to follow orders, then steps in between his knees instead. Before he can decide what to do about it, she’s kissing him. Her mouth is warm and tastes like gin and lime. He fists a hand in her hair and kisses back. For a second he forgets about Hydra, about the mission, about everything but the feel of her mouth against his. Then she steps back and is gone.

He shakes his head a little, licks the taste of her off his lips, and taps the bar twice. The bartender slides out from behind it and flicks the sign on the front door to Closed. The goons jerk their heads up, but too late — one of his knives has already pinned the buyer’s hand to the table.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he says, pulling off his glove to reveal his metal hand. “I believe you have something that belongs to SHIELD.”

Eight guns appear, pointed at him. He smiles.

***

He’s walking down the hall at headquarters three days later when he hears a woman’s voice echoing from the stairway.

“… because Sergeant St. Bernard was clearly just a fall guy, Janey!”

Bucky stops dead in his tracks.

Two women come around the corner. Bucky’s never seen one of them before, but she’s wearing a lab coat, so he guesses science division. The other …

… is staring at him, her rant about the cat mafia abruptly cut off. Her lipstick is bright red today, and her hair is up in a bun. He likes it — easier access to her neck. He wonders if she still smells like peaches.

“Hi, doll,” he says.

“Heathen,” she says, eyes wide with shock. Then her expression drops into a glare and she stalks down the hall to confront him. “You total asshole. You’re with SHIELD? You could have just _walked down the hall_ to tell me you were okay?” She takes a swing at him, but he catches her hand before she can bruise her knuckles on his left arm.

“Hey, hey, easy,” he says, holding her wrists gently. “How was I s’posed to know?”

“You’re a spy,” she snaps, “figure it out.” Behind the fierce glare, he sees something else — worry? For _him?_ “There were nine hostiles in that damn bar, for Chrissakes!”

“You were counting hostiles?” Bucky says, but she charges on. 

“And you didn’t even have a gun on you! I figured you were dead, or —” She stops and swallows hard.

“Not dead,” he says, pressing one of her hands against his chest so she can feel his heartbeat. He can hear his own voice, how oddly gentle it is. She takes a deep, hitching breath. “Sorry, doll. I’m sorry.”

“Um,” her friend says, and Bucky remembers that other people exist. “Who are you?”

“Right,” he says, and steps back, but can’t quite make himself let go of the girl’s hands. She doesn’t seem in a hurry to take them back, either. “Sorry. Bucky Barnes — uh, Agent Barnes.”

“This is the guy from the bar,” the girl adds, “you know, he used me as a human shield and then I made out with — wait a second. Did you say _Bucky Barnes?_ ”

Bucky swallows a sigh. This can go a few ways, but most of them aren’t pleasant. “Yes?” he says cautiously.

“Bucky Barnes, as in the Winter Soldier?” Her eyes narrow on his face. “Friend of Captain America? World Famous WWII lady killer?”

“Um.” He coughs. “I wouldn’t say lady killer.”

“HA!” she crows, and cranes her neck to stick her tongue out at her friend. “ _How could you kiss a stranger, Darcy,_ ” she sing-songs. “ _He couldn’t possibly have been that hot, Darcy._ Well guess what, Janey, history agrees with me!”

Bucky’s jaw drops. This was not on his list of possibilities.

“Fine, fine,” her friend says, holding up her hands. “You were right, I was wrong, I’ll be in the lab if you need me. Don’t let him kidnap you again.”

Bucky can’t help the smirk that slides over his face. “Darcy, huh?” he says. She jolts back to look at him and her face flushes at his expression. “Nice to meet you, Darcy. Any chance I can buy you a drink, maybe in a place with fewer hostiles?”

She looks down at their hands, still clasped together, and smiles. “Hmm, maybe. Does this mean I get that explanation?”

That smile, Jesus. He wants to say _yes, god yes, anything you want._ Duty forces him to swallow it and replace it with, “What’s your clearance level?”

“Seven.”

He lets go of one hand and slides the other into the crook of his arm. She raises an amused eyebrow, but lets him pull her toward the elevator. “In that case, doll,” he says, “you can have anything you want.”


	4. Will You Shrink and Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky used to be good with women. Now, a gorgeous dame walks through the door and he panics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: this chapter features a recovering Bucky and contains descriptions of anxiety and negative self-talk.

Bucky Barnes crouched down further underneath the counter in the Avengers’ common kitchen and gave himself a stern talking-to. “Come on, Barnes,” he whispered savagely. “You can do this. It’s a pretty girl, not a firing squad.”

Thing was, he used to be _good_ with women. Everyone said so. He even remembered, a little, how it felt: the easy smiles, the right words, the sizzle in his blood that meant things were going well. But now? Now a gorgeous dame had walked through the front door of the Tower and all Bucky felt was panic.

He could hear the others out in the main room making small talk with the newcomers, the rumble of Steve’s voice ( _probably making excuses for you, for you,_ his brain whispered). He wanted to go out there. He really did. He just … couldn’t.

“Okay,” he breathed, closing his eyes. “Slow breaths … easy … you can do this. Everything will be okay. Fear is just your brain trying to protect you. You’re hiding now so that you can work through it and come out stronger.”

“Yeah!” a woman’s voice whispered behind him. “What are we hiding from?”

“ _Jesus fuck!_ ” The next thing Bucky knew, he was on his feet facing her, hand curled around the nearest weapon.

The pretty girl he’d seen on the security monitors smiled up at him from where she was crouched on the floor. “Hi!” she said brightly.

He pressed his free hand to his chest, trying to slow his racing heart. “Doll, you can’t just sneak up on me like that! I’m an assassin for chrissakes, I coulda killed you.”

Her eyes dropped from his face to his hand. “With a spatula?” she said.

He looked down at his ‘weapon’ for the first time and grimaced. It was, indeed, a spatula. Not even a metal one — a purple plastic one with a handle shaped like a smiling whale. Clint’s choice, if he had to guess. “Yeah, probably,” he admitted, putting it down and running his hand through his hair. “Never tried.”

“Huh. That’s kind of cool.” 

What? No it wasn’t. It was terrifying. Why wasn’t she terrified?

Instead, she hauled herself to her feet ( _should I offer her a hand, oops too late, dammit Barnes_ ) and held out her hand with no fear whatsoever. “I’m Darcy, by the way.”

“Bucky.” He shook her hand, and that was fine, it was normal. He even managed to smile a little, and felt a trace of the old sizzle when her smile widened in return. This was … this was going okay. But even as he thought it, he realized he had no idea what to do next. The sizzle drowned in another wave of panic.

The silence stretched. He couldn’t hold her gaze, so he let his own slip to the floor: she was wearing beat-up gray sneakers with Thor’s hammer drawn on them in Sharpie. He knew Sharpies because he wrote with them sometimes during his early recovery, when his fine motor control wasn’t good enough to use a pen.

“Okay,” she said finally, “good talk. If I ever need a dude killed with a spatula, I know where to go. I’m gonna head back out there, do you wanna …”

He couldn’t stop his flinch. _Great, Barnes, just great. Hiding under the counter and now this. How else do you wanna embarrass yourself in front of this dame, huh?_

She pulled back, her palms up and out in the universal signal for non-threatening. “No, right, okay,” she said, her tone casual even though Bucky was sure he looked like something that belonged on Wild Kingdom. “Well, I’ll see you around then! If you ever need an accomplice for the whole, you know …” she gestured at the counter where he’d been crouched, “I work down on the 40th floor and I make a mean pillow fort.”

40th floor was a lab floor. He flinched again. The only lab he was comfortable in was Stark’s, and even that was only in the last month. And, if he was honest, only because Stark was too irritating to be Hydra.

He pulled his head back to the present and tried to say some kind of normal goodbye, but the girl was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, it's not over! Those of you who wanted a full story are going to get your wish. This grew way beyond a one-shot, because I just really love this Bucky a lot okay.
> 
> The rest of the story will be posted as a separate work: [Will You Shrink and Hide](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12235314/chapters/27797874)


	5. When She's Standing at Your Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bucky yanked the door open and glared. "Whatever it is, we don't want any."_
> 
>  
> 
> _"Oh," the girl outside purred, "I think you do."_
> 
>    
> Bucky and Steve need a qualified field tech to help them take down Hydra. Preferably someone who has experience working with superheroes. Lucky for them, SHIELD just finished training one Agent Darcy Lewis.

Bucky yanked the door open and glared at the brunette in the floppy knit hat who kept leaning on the bell. “Whatever it is, we don’t want any.”

He tried to slam the door, but it bounced off the sole of a … he looked down and blinked … bright purple combat boot?

“Oh,” the girl purred, “I think you do.” She dodged his attempt to kick her foot away and shoved the boot in the door again with cobra quickness. 

He gave up for the moment, reluctantly impressed. The Winter Soldier could have gotten rid of her in about a second and a half, of course, but the best thing about being Bucky Barnes was not doing most of the shit the Winter Soldier could do. Also, the view wasn’t half bad. He leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms, and looked her up and down.

Purple floppy hat (it matched the boots). Long curly dark hair. Blue eyes behind those weird thick-framed glasses everyone seemed to wear nowadays. Pouty lips in purple lipstick (it matched the hat and the boots). Loose sweater completely failing to downplay the fact that she had more curves than a road through the Alps. No visible weapons, no concealed weapons, unless she had an arsenal in the giant patchwork purse slung over her shoulder. He doubted it, though. There was nothing military about her stance and _definitely_ nothing regulation about the boots.

“Oh yeah?” he said, and allowed himself something between a smirk and a leer. “Who says?”

She reached into the bag, and he tensed, but before he could take any kind of evasive action her hand came out again holding a sheaf of papers. “This requisition form says.” She held up the form and read: “Miniaturized personal comm links, mobile command center unit, intel analysis equipment, and a tech with at least level 7 clearance to run it.” She handed him a SHIELD ID card identifying her as one Agent Darcy Lewis, Level 7 Communications Specialist, and gave him an exaggerated doe-eyed look of inquiry. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

Oh, hell.

***

Oh, _hell._

Darcy Lewis had thought she was prepared, and not just in the sense that she’d read the briefing packet and put on clean underoos. She wasn’t exactly inexperienced when it came to the godly and otherwise larger-than-life side of SHIELD’s work. Hell, Thor was the reason she’d gone into this work at all. And she knew what Bucky Barnes looked like. (She could neither confirm nor deny that his photo in her seventh-grade history textbook had jump-started puberty.)

So, she was ready for the metal arm. She was ready for the broad shoulders and acres of muscle that his baggy, faded blue t-shirt was totally failing to hide. She was ready for the chin dimple and the razor-sharp cheekbones. But she wasn’t ready for the long hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, or the few strands that had slipped free to caress those cheekbones. She wasn’t ready for his mouth to be set in a pout that just begged for someone to bite into it. And she most especially was _not at all ready_ for the pout to turn into a smile. A smile that picked her up, undressed her, messed up her hair, smeared her lipstick, then put her back together and whispered, _Nice panties_ in her ear.

 _Jesus, am I pregnant now?_ She swallowed. _No no no, bad Darcy, unprofessional._

Anyway, the smile was gone. She bit back a sigh and waited for him to say something. Because people always said something. From Jane ( _“The field tech program? Do you think that’s a good idea, Darce?”_ ), to Fury ( _“You realize we’re giving you a chance as a favor to Thor,”_ ) to her instructors ( _“Experimental physics is all very nice, Ms. Lewis, but in this class we do real science”_ ) and fellow students ( _“You may have slept your way in here, but you won’t last.”_ )

But she had lasted, and now, four months and three shitty assignments after she clawed her way to graduation, here she was waiting for the Winter Soldier to take his turn. She was guessing it would be something super 1940s like, _“Why don’t you get back in the kitchen and tell Nick Fury to send us a real tech, sweetheart.”_

He looked at her, his expression dismayed. 

She stared back, silently daring him to say it. 

He opened his mouth. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize — we were expecting it to take a few more days. C’mon in.”

Darcy opened her own mouth, but nothing came out. She felt like she’d been braced for a car crash and instead she was somehow in zero gravity. He opened the door all the way, and she floated inside, still waiting for the impact that wasn’t coming.

He shut the door behind her and handed back her ID, then turned to look down the narrow hallway they were standing in. “Hey Stevie,” he yelled, vowels dripping Brooklyn, “your birthday present’s here.”

“My birthday ain’t till July,” an equally New Yawk voice yelled back from somewhere deeper in the house. After a second, a door to the right opened and out came Steve Rogers, Captain America himself. He was just as blond and Dorito-shaped as he looked on TV, plus the cameras didn’t show that he had eyelashes like whoadamn. “Oh — hi,” he said when he saw her, and smiled.

It was a very nice smile that did nothing to her underwear whatsoever.

That was kind of a shock. Darcy had expected Cap to be the panty melter. Everyone talked about him like he was a Thor-level heartthrob, and she could see it aesthetically, but nothing about him made her want to see what he was packing in the Trousers of Righteousness.

Meanwhile, Barnes was standing next to her doing absolutely nothing and dear Lord she wanted to climb him like a tree. _Ugh. Professionalism. I am a professional._

“Director Fury likes to shop ahead,” she said, and held up the requisition form.

His smile turned into a delighted grin before she even had time to worry about what he was going to say. “Already? That’s great! Come on into the living room, I’ll clear off the coffee table.” As he led the way, she mentally noted the fact that a) the accent had completely disappeared and b) the grin didn’t do anything for her either.

Halfway down the hall, she felt a change in the air. There was no sound, but when she turned to look, Barnes was gone. She tried not to be disappointed and failed miserably.

“What’s your name?” Cap said as he cheerfully dumped papers on the floor and relocated half-empty mugs of coffee. The Star-Spangled Man was obviously kind of a slob, and Darcy instantly felt at home. All the place needed was a calcified Pop-Tart and a few machines held together with duct tape, and it would be just like Puente Antiguo. Muscly blondes and all. Speaking of whom … “I’m Steve and the jerk who opened the door is Bucky — but I guess you know that.”

“Sure do,” she said, dropping her bag on the couch. “I’m Darcy Lewis. Um, Agent Lewis, technically, but I don’t really do the, you know —” She sighted an imaginary gun. “— Agent stuff.”

“No, but you do the —” Steve mimed typing on an imaginary keyboard. “— other Agent stuff. Guns I’ve got, what I need is brains.”

“Heard that about you,” she murmured, forgetting about super hearing.

He gave a crack of laughter, almost a cackle. She blushed, but when she looked up, it was clearly genuine. “I’d ask who you heard it from, but it really could be almost anyone.”

“And was.” She grinned back at him, because if he could take a little teasing, they were going to do just fine. “Fury, Coulson, Hill, Thor, Natasha … I’ll make you a list.”

He sat down in an armchair and waved her down on the couch. “You know Thor and Natasha?”

“Natasha, not really. She did my briefing on you and —” Darcy gestured towards where his ex-Soviet lifemate had disappeared into the ether. “But Thor and I go way back. The first time I hacked a government database was to make him a fake ID.” Speaking of which … she reached into her bag and pulled out her laptop.

“Why did he need a fake ID?” Steve said, and then, “Wait, the _first_ time?”

She shrugged and gave him a fake-innocent smile. “They weren’t gonna send a Girl Scout along on your weird World War Two grudge match, Cap.”

His eyebrows shot up, and his eyes went from ‘aw-shucks’ friendly to sharp as razors. She tried not to swallow as he looked her over again, more closely. Unlike Barnes’ carnal stare, this one felt like being neatly dissected. But apparently whatever he saw was good — her kidneys were the right color, or whatever — because he nodded once and gave her another smile. “You want some coffee or something?”

“Oh god, please Jesus yes,” she said before she could stop herself. Three years a SHIELD agent and that brain-mouth filter was still spotty at best.

“Yeah, that’s how Buck feels in the morning too,” Steve said, unfazed, and turned to look out into the. “I know you heard that, asshole!” he yelled without warning, making her jump. “You gonna bring us some coffee or what?” No, not coffee. _Cwa-fee._ Brooklyn was back in the house.

“Get your own fuckin’ coffee, you Irish piece of shit!” Bucky’s rough voice hollered back from somewhere deeper in the house.

“Manners!” Steve yelled back, grinning all over his face. “We got a guest for Chrissakes.” He turned back to Darcy. “Sugar and milk?” he asked politely, the accentless Boy Scout again.

“Uh-huh,” she said faintly. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this was not it. Natasha said that Steve was a good guy, still very much an old-school gentleman, with maybe a little bit of a reckless streak. Bucky, she’d said, was quiet and withdrawn, so Darcy shouldn’t worry about it if he didn’t talk much to her unless it was mission-relevant. Front porch eye-fucking, peekaboo accents, and cursing each other out at the top of their lungs had not been mentioned.

Did Natasha know these people at all?

Bucky came in a second later with two mugs in one hand, a third mug and a cream pitcher in the other, and a small Ziploc baggie of sugar cubes clutched in his teeth. Which just gave her a reason to look at his mouth and hot damn, that had not gotten any less distracting in the last five minutes. She forced her eyes away.

“We have a tray,” Steve pointed out, taking one of the mugs and the pitcher.

Bucky muttered something indistinct around the sugar cubes and shoved the other two mugs at Darcy. She was on his right, so it was the flesh hand, and there was no way to avoid brushing his fingers while she took one.

There was nothing to the contact, really, except that every nerve ending in those tiny patches of skin _lit up._ She could have taken a pen and outlined the exact edges of every place they touched.

When she risked a glance upwards, he was Looking at her again. Capital L definitely required. “Th —” she started, and had to clear her throat. “Thanks.”

He spat the bag out and caught it in his other hand as it fell. One corner of his mouth quirked up. “ ’S my pleasure.” He walked past Steve to the other armchair, and when his body blocked the line of sight between them, she heard a faint scuffle. When she could see Steve again, he didn’t appear to have moved, but he was smiling faintly and Bucky was rubbing his side. He didn’t so much sit down as toss himself sulkily in the chair.

Huh. Okay. She took a deep breath and tossed all of her plans for polite professionalism and slow rapport building out the window. “So, I gotta ask, is this like a sibling thing or a married thing? Because I’m gonna be around a lot, so if I need to be prepared for no-pants situations —”

“What?” Steve said, looking horrified, and Bucky doubled over, laughing like a hyena.

Sibling thing. Check. She tried not to feel too good about that, but the man was hot okay, sue her. “Just checking,” she said, holding her hands up in a placating gesture, and reached for the milk. “A girl likes to know when she should set her Instagram to friends-only, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” Steve said, his voice faint and still frozen with horror. “Know what you mean.”

“I do,” Bucky said, snagging the bag of sugar and dropping a sorta obscenely large handful of sugar cubes into his cup.

Darcy waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. “You gonna explain it to him, or …?”

“Nope.” The shape his lips made when he popped the final ‘p’ was frankly obscene. “If you wanna start explaining internet things to Steve, we’re gonna be here all day.”

“We are gonna be here all day,” Darcy pointed out.

“Maybe you are. I gotta hot date with Season 3 of Dog Cops.”

“There are only two seasons of Dog Cops,” she said automatically. He raised an eyebrow and gave her yet another version of that smirk. She opened her mouth, then shook her head. Contrary to popular belief, SHIELD had actually trained her to stay on task … sort of. “ _Anyway,_ I’d think you’d want to be here for mission prep. Isn’t this whole thing, like, your big plan?”

“Doll,” he drawled. “You read your history books, right? Did your homework on us?”

The pet name was maybe a problem. Or maybe it was just a problem that she kind of liked it. She shrugged, matched his eyebrow raise, and sipped her coffee.

“So what about anything we’ve ever done makes you think that Steve gives me a say in the plans?”

She pursed her lips and looked at Steve, then back at him. “Um, I don’t know, the part where he’s still alive?”

“Hey!” Steve said, but he was grinning.

Bucky tipped back his head and laughed for a long time. “Doll,” he said, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

***

Darcy Lewis shot him another one of those looks through her lashes — the ones that made him want to kick Steve out of the room and start a whole different kind of friendship. The kind that ended with messy hair, smeared lipstick, and clothes on the — _No. Focus, Barnes._

“Awesome,” she said. “I love making new friends. I even brought you a present!” She reached into her purse and handed him a folder.

He flipped it open on the coffee table, and he and Steve leaned forward to look. Inside was a neat, well-organized and thorough summary of how to most efficiently blow six kinds of hell out of the nearest Hydra base.

He looked up at her, intrigued. “Did you put this together?”

“Yup!” She grinned. “And I have two more when we’re done with that one. What do you think, new friend? Want to go kick the shit out of Hydra?”

Forget friendship. He was going to marry her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who need to know because of REASONS, [these are Darcy's purple combat boots.](https://www.marshallshoes.co.uk/images/products/zoom/1348670311-27613300.jpg) Fair warning, they are tragically discontinued, but you can get similar ones that aren't patent.
> 
> (NGL, I own a pair. Also the lipstick. And maybe the hat. ... I admit nothing.)
> 
> ETA: Also, I want you all to know that you are wonderful, magical people and your comments are the best part of my day. <3 <3 <3 forever


	6. She Comes to Claim Your Heart, Your Life, Your Body (then still wants more)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If Darcy Lewis shows up at your door, chances are you did something to bring her there..._
> 
> Darcy is an assassin who only kills bad guys. The Winter Soldier is pretty much the baddest guy out there. Too bad nobody thought to explain to her that Bucky Barnes isn't the Winter Soldier anymore.
> 
> Awk-ward!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, no one is going to murder anyone. Just so you know.
> 
> Contains mentions of violence right at the beginning, and the general content of Bucky's backstory. The violence doesn't happen, except for one tiny bit. I've described it in the end note for those who want to check it out before reading.
> 
> As always, you are all wonderful beings who light up my life.

“They want _what?”_ Darcy Lewis kicked her feet up onto the beat-up gray metal lab desk, wincing at the shrill tone in her own voice. Jane turned to give her a questioning look. She smiled and mouthed, _Family._

“His heart,” her mother said. “Just his heart, they don’t care about the rest. Some kind of weird-ass Snow White bullshit, I don’t know.”

“Gross,” Darcy said, and popped her gum.

“Put it in a cooler, princess, you’ll be fine. And bring back the rest of the body too, would you? I have other bidders.”

“Double gross.” Across the lab, Jane frowned and started to fiddle with a dial. Darcy raised her voice. “Janey, no, not that one! Gotta go mom, I love you. Talk to you soon.”

“Love you too! Make sure you get it out intact! You might want to bring a mallet for the —” Darcy hung up, wincing. A mallet, god.

She went across and helped Jane recalibrate the doohickey to focus on a different energy signature. It wasn’t really hard, just fiddly. Needed a steady hand, not unlike some of Darcy’s other work.

“So what’s gross?” Jane said when they were done, wiping oil off her fingers.

“What? — Oh. We were just talking about what the niblings want for Christmas,” Darcy said easily. “There’s some kind of weird slime mold experiment that all the kids are doing and they want, like, eight sets.”

Jane wrinkled her nose. “Ew. But I mean, it’s cool that it’s science.”

“Yeah.” Darcy sighed. “I just hate slimy things.”

***

There wasn’t really a time when the Tower was empty, per se. Even during the occasional bout of Avenging, there were still significant others and support staff and so forth. Still, a little judicious hacking of the security feeds had shown that 3 a.m. was a pretty quiet time. There was only one person who was reliably up and wandering around.

So at 3 a.m., three days after her mom’s call, Darcy strolled down the hall on the 97th floor in her oldest flannel PJs, tapping at her tablet with a stylus. She didn’t look up until a large shadow fell across the screen.

“Oh!” she said, faking sudden fear, and then she looked up and didn’t have to fake it.

Bucky Barnes was standing in front of her, metal arm gleaming in the blue light from the tablet. His tangled hair cast his face in shadow, except for the gleam of his pale eyes, narrowed and feral. “You shouldn’t be here,” he growled.

Darcy swallowed, goosebumps chasing goosebumps up her arms. The guy was big. Like, she’d seen him before and she knew he was tall, but up close in a dark hallway it was something else again. Maybe she should have listened to her mom about that mallet. “S-sorry,” she said. “The elevator stopped and I just —” _climbed out the top and rappelled four floors down the shaft_ “—got off without looking. Sorry, I’ll just …”

She backed away, waiting for him to blink. When he did, she whipped the stylus up and blew once, hard.

At the same moment, he snapped something in Russian.

The next thing Darcy knew, she was hanging upside down in some kind of metal net, six feet off the ground. Bucky was slumped down against the wall a few feet away, boneless as a doll. So at least _something_ had worked as planned.

“Huh,” she said, and tried a little struggle. The net moved in exactly no way at all. “What the hell is this thing?”

“Narrow-gauge t’t’nium messsh,” Bucky slurred from below her. She’d have jumped, if she could move. “Wha’ th’ hell is this stuff?”

“Modified dendrotoxin.” Darcy squinted at him, happy she hadn’t lost her glasses. “You shouldn’t be able to talk.”

“Super sold’er,” he said, and she noticed with discomfort that the slur was fading. “Might notta gotten the bran’-name version but ‘m still enhanced.” He made a grunting noise of effort, and his head flopped over onto the other shoulder, so he was looking up at her. “But I can’t hit th’ panic button ’til I can move my hands. So we got some time to chat. Who are you really?”

She didn’t bother to answer, because a) how dumb did he think she was, anyway and b) she was thinking back over the last few minutes. He’d been on guard from the second he saw her. But why? He might not have met her, but he knew she lived in the Tower. They’d been in the same room a couple of times and she’d said something dippy to Jane about him being cute. She was pretty sure she’d done the lollipop trick, even. Nobody worried about her after they saw the lollipop trick.

Only now that she thought about it, he’d never really relaxed around her. Never talked to her. Never came to the labs with Steve. Stayed on the other side of the room any time she was nearby. And just now … she narrowed her eyes. Just now, he’d given the command for the net _before_ he felt the dart.

“Out of curiosity,” she said lightly, like it was no big deal and her blood was definitely not turning to ice in her veins, “when did you start to suspect?”

It was hard to tell from this angle, but she thought he almost smiled. “When Thor started tellin’ stories ‘bout his lightnin’ sister,” he said. “No regular coed hacks government databases and carries crazy juiced-up tasers.”

No regular coed had six knives hidden in various places under her jammies, either. Darcy wiggled her fingers, inching for the one on the inside of her thigh. “Hey now, don’t underestimate coeds,” she said, to distract him from the motion. “My roommate Louise once foiled a burglary with two potholders and a Cup-o-Noodles.”

He snorted. “Bullshit.”

“Possibly.” Her fingers curled around the handle of the knife, and she couldn’t keep herself from grinning at him. “But honestly, you’re right, I was surprised nobody picked up on that.”

Another snort. Had his fingers twitched? She couldn’t tell in this light. “This bunch wouldn’t know normal if they hit it with a brick.”

She huffed a laugh. The trick with narrow-gauge mesh was, even if it was crazy tough material, the links were thin enough that you could snap them open if you had something to lever with, like say the tip of a knife.

“So, just out of curiosity,” he said, mimicking her words with biting sarcasm, “what are you? Hydra? Red Room?”

“Ugh!” She jerked back a little in instinctive distaste, and then winced as some of her hair caught in the net. That was going to hurt like a bitch when she had to rip it out. Maybe she could tack on some kind of surcharge for hair-related trauma. “No way man, fuck those assholes. I’m not some kind of hired killer.” She paused, wiggling the knife, and thought about it. “Well okay, I am, but like, only for really bad guys. ‘If I show up at your door, you did something to bring me there,’ you know?”

He was silent.

“It’s from a movie about an assassin. _Grosse Pointe Blank?”_ Still nothing. Darcy sighed. “Dude, someone should have really worked on your pop culture education.”

“They tend not to show me movies about assassins,” he said, his voice dry as the Sahara. And, she was worried to notice, completely clear.

Three links had given, four more to go. She wiggled the knife faster. “Yeah, well anyway, you’re pretty much the baddest bad guy in the world. And someone gave me a lot of money to make that not be the case. So, sorry dude.”

He winced. Not just his face — his hand definitely moved, too. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“Sure.” It was Darcy’s turn to snort. “I’ve never heard _that_ before. The last time a guy got me with that ‘oh don’t hurt me, I’m retired’ schtick, I was fifteen. Fun story, he put out a hit on me and I only survived ‘cause no one could find me. You live in my _house._ I’m sure you can see why I prefer not to take the risk.”

“Won’t be your house for very long, sweetheart,” he growled, through what sounded like gritted teeth. One of his feet twitched.

“Sure it will!” _Just a little longer. Keep him talking._ “What’s going to happen is, you’re going to vanish. All of this? Never happened. But don’t worry, you’ll leave behind a nice note for your friend Steve about how you just couldn’t keep living here, with the guilt of what you’ve done. It’s very touching,” she added, “I wrote it myself.”

Bucky stared at her for a second. Then he laughed, not nicely. Her blood turned to ice again. “Yeah, nice try, doll. Steve won’t buy that for a second. He knows I don’t feel guilty.”

“You don’t?” Ugh. Suddenly she felt better about this. His kill count was insane, and he didn’t feel guilty!? Even Darcy felt a little guilty sometimes, and she only killed certified Grade-A Assholes.

“Got nothing to feel guilty about,” he said. His voice was calm, but his right hand curled into a fist, and she heard a whir that suggested the left hand was doing the same. “Didn’t you read my file? I was under mind control. Tortured, brainwashed, the whole nine. Never wanted to do any of it.”

Darcy froze. The knife stopped moving. “You were … what?”

His eyes were level on her face. “You heard me.”

“F … for seventy years?” She swallowed hard and tried to imagine. Then she tried very hard not to imagine.

He had an odd expression on his face. If she didn’t know better, she might have said it was surprise. “They really never told you, did they?”

“Nope!” she said, with bright, bitter humor. “They like to shelter me from stuff like that.” She made her voice high, mimicking Jane. “ ’Don’t tell Darcy, it’ll only upset her.’ All they said about you was hey, Bucky used to do some bad stuff but don’t worry, he’s not like that anymore. How the hell was I supposed to know what that meant?” She blew out an angry breath. “ _Civilians._ Why do they have no sense of mission-critical information?”

“I ask myself that all the damn time,” Bucky agreed.

They sat — or swung, in Darcy’s case — in silence for a moment.

“So …” he said finally. “What now?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. She stared into space as her brain turned over options. “I guess I’ll have to clear out. Which sucks, because I _like_ this cover. Nobody looks twice at Darcy. I can tell Jane I’m going to Cabo for a week, five cartel bosses die while I’m down there, and all anybody says when I get back is ‘Hey Darce, did you drink lots of margaritas?’ ”

“Handy,” he said, in that same dry voice. “But I meant, where are we on the you-killing-me thing?”

She huffed a sigh. Her mom was going to be so annoyed. “Bad guys only, Robot Spice,” she said. “You’re safe. But, just out of curiosity … you wouldn’t happen to have the name and address of the person who did all that to you?”

“People, doll. Plural.”

Darcy felt red rage rise in front of her eyes, or maybe that was just from all the blood pooling in her head. Either way, she heard the note of icy ruthlessness in her voice when she said, “Question stands.” 

He made another face that she couldn’t interpret. His eyes tracked from her face upwards to her hand, and she could tell from his expression that he’d known about the knife all along. “How long you think it’s going to take you to get out of that net?”

She started working again, not even bothering to be subtle. “Bout another minute. Why, how long is it going to take you to shake off that dendrotoxin?”

He grinned. She realized, too late, that he’d been very still for the last couple of minutes.

He hopped to his feet, not even giving her the courtesy of being clumsy at it, and strolled over. The net held her so that her face was almost exactly level with his. She eyed him warily, but his expression was unreadable.

“So, where are we on the you-killing-me thing?” she said, and was proud that her voice didn’t shake.

He ducked his head so they were eye to eye. This close, his eyes were very blue and very cold. She swallowed hard. He lifted the metal hand, fingers splayed, to her head … and gently untangled her hair from the net. “I don’t,” he said softly, “do that anymore.”

The last link snapped. She fell, twisting to land on her feet. They were still just inches apart, but she was shorter than him now, and had to tilt her head back to look at him.

She stared at him. He stared at her.

She backed up a step. He didn’t move. She backed up another, and another, and then she was running for the elevator shaft and he wasn’t following her, wasn’t moving at all. She risked a look back when she had the harness hooked up, just before she jumped. He was still standing there, watching her. When their eyes met, he lifted his left hand and waved.

She dived backwards into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: Bucky gets hit with a blowdart and is briefly paralyzed. This annoys him but does not traumatize him.
> 
> If you like assassin!Darcy, good news! Not only is this a full story, but I have a completed draft! It needs to marinate for a little while and get beta'd, and then I will pipe it right to your eyeballs. Stay tuned!


	7. Will She Find You Bearing Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky just came face-to-face with the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. Too bad she's not his blind date.
> 
> But to be fair, he's not her takeout, either.

Bucky Barnes took a deep breath, tucked a piece of hair back into his bun, and adjusted his (slightly sweaty) grip on the bouquet Steve had shoved into his hands at the last minute. Then he rang the doorbell.

Nothing happened.

He waited a full minute, then tried again, growling a little under his breath. _I could be on my nice comfy couch with some takeout right now._ If he’d gotten all dressed up _and_ put his hair up _and_ missed out on the Dog Cops marathon for nothing, someone was gonna pay, and that someone’s name rhymed with Shmatasha Shmomanoff.

“All right!” a woman’s voice yelled from inside. “I’m coming, jeez, hold your horses! I had to grab my …” The door was thrown open, and the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen blinked at him.

She had big blue eyes behind thick-framed glasses, a wide, lush mouth, and dark hair that spilled over her shoulders in loose curls. He let his eyes wander a little, over curves he wouldn’t have been surprised to see painted on the nose of a plane back in the day. Now, they were covered by a loose red tank top and a pair of thin yoga pants. God bless the 21st century.

His first thought was _I owe Natasha big-time._

His dream girl took in his button-down and the flowers, and her mouth made a perfect O of surprise. His second thought was _Shit, I’m overdressed._ Then she swallowed and said, “You’re not my Thai food.”

_Oh._ “And you’re not my date,” he guessed, trying not to sound as disappointed as he felt.

“Nope,” she said, and shot him a bewitching smile. Damn it, why couldn’t she be his date? “I’m her housemate. Laura’s upstairs getting dressed. C’mon in …” She trailed off and gave him an unexpectedly sharp look. “Unless you’re planning to axe murder us or something.”

He made a show of patting his pockets with his free hand. “Aw, hell, I’m fresh out of axes. Knew I forgot _something._ ”

She laughed and stepped back. “Well, nobody’s perfect,” she said, obscurely. “I’m Darcy, by the way.”

He switched the flowers so he could shake her outstretched hand. “Bucky.”

“This way,” she said, and led him down the hall to a comfortably shabby living room that reminded him of the one he and Steve used to share. On the way, she paused to holler up the stairs, “Laura! Your date’s here!”

Another woman yelled something back, at a considerably lower volume. Bucky couldn’t make out a word of it, but the tone implied that it might be a while.

Darcy shrugged at him and threw herself down on the couch. He followed, sitting gingerly on the edge so he didn’t wrinkle his shirt. He looked at the flowers, not quite sure what to do with them, and finally laid them carefully on the coffee table. There was a brief silence. Small talk really wasn’t his strong suit these days.

She started to pick up the TV remote, then shot him a glance out of the corner of her eye and visibly took pity on him. “So, what do you do when you’re not being the world’s worst axe murderer?” she said.

He couldn’t exactly say _‘I’m the world’s best every-other-weapon murderer,’_ (which was still the truth even if they called it ‘Avenging’ these days), so he settled for, “Believe it or not, security.” He tried for a disarming smile, and she smiled back, so it must have worked okay. “What about you?”

She shrugged. “Office, blah blah blah,” she said, which told him pretty much nothing, but okay.

“Sounds fascinating,” he said, a little bit dryly. “Which part is your favorite, blah, blah, or blah?”

She laughed again, a low-pitched chuckle that he … really should not be having thoughts about. “Well, right now I mostly blah, and I’m hoping to start a new role in blah-de-blah soon,” she said. “But the _best_ part is blah.” She shot him a little glance under her lashes. “What’s your favorite part of your job? Bam, pow, or biff?”

He cracked up, laughing harder than he had in a long time. That really did just about describe his job. “Probably kapow,” he said. “It’s like pow, but with a ricochet.”

She nodded sagely. “Makes you look cooler than just a regular pow.”

“Exactly.” He resisted the urge to flex just a little. This was bordering on flirting, and even he remembered that it was bad form to do that with your date’s roommate. “What are your plans for tonight?” he asked, to remind himself that they didn’t include him.

She burrowed a little further into the couch and spread her arms. “You’re looking at it. I’ve got takeout on the way, and channel 19 is showing a Dog Cops marathon.”

“Sounds nice,” he said, trying to keep the utter, pathetic longing out of his voice.

“Well,” she said, “the Thai delivery guy isn’t going to bring me roses, but that’s okay. Our love is pure and true.” Her tone was joking, but to his surprise, the look she shot at the bouquet was a little bit sad.

On impulse, he reached for it and pulled out a rose that exactly matched the pink of her lips. “Everyone who comes to your house should bring you roses, doll,” he said, and held it out.

She reached for it, her cheeks flushing up a little. For a second, their fingers were almost touching on the stem. If he moved his hand just a little bit —

The sharp click of high heels on the stairs broke the moment. He did move his hand, but only to take it away from hers.

Darcy took the flower and fussed around with it, not meeting his eyes. “Such an old-fashioned gentleman,” she said, with a good attempt at the earlier joking tone.

Before he could say anything, her roommate came in. He turned to look and had to suppress a tiny sigh.

It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with Laura. There wasn’t. She was blonde, and pretty, and clearly classy as hell. He shouldn’t be complaining for a second about taking a girl like that out for a nice dinner, and he wasn’t, really. It was just that … he was a punk kid from Brooklyn. He’d spent the first part of his life working the docks and the second part shooting people from high places. At this point, his idea of a perfect Friday night was less ‘wine and dine a classy dame’ and more ‘comfy sweatpants and nobody shooting at me.’

He should never have let Natasha talk him into this.

Still, that was his problem, not Laura’s, so he smiled and stood up to greet her. When he handed her the flowers, her smile was just the right shade of flattered. “Thank you!” she said, and shook his hand. “James, right? Let me get some water for these.”

Somehow, she’d bustled off before he could get a word in edgewise tell her to call him Bucky. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and remembered at the last second not to shove a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he said weakly, and turned back to Darcy, trying not to look like he just wanted one last look at her. “Well, uh … bye, I guess.”

“Bye,” she said, her voice expressionless. But then the doorbell rang, and she smiled. “And there’s my true love, right on time!” she said, and bounced out of the room.

Bucky had never wanted to be a bowl of pad Thai before. _At least I’m trying new things,_ he thought, and followed Laura down the hall.

***

The restaurant Natasha had helped him choose was good. Nice enough for a date, but not so nice that he felt like he oughta be waiting the tables. The prices outraged his 1930s soul, but so did all prices these days. He and Steve regularly sent each other frowning selfies from the grocery store.

They ordered drinks, and he pushed _blue eyes dark curls soft curves_ out of his head and focused on the woman in front of him.

Lack of sweatpants aside, she was pretty great. Funny, in an understated way, and sharp as a tack. Her clearance was high enough that he could tell her he worked with the Avengers, if not exactly how. (And thank god for Stark’s nanopolymer sleeve, plus the goggles on his uniform, for making it possible to keep his private life _private._ ) In return, she seemed pleasantly surprised that his clearance was high enough to hear some of her funny stories from the Agency.

The food was good, the company was good, and he was deeply relieved when she looked at him over dessert and said, “James, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m not feeling a spark here.”

He fumbled, trying to figure out how to agree without being so rude his ma would roll over in her grave.

She watched for a second, then broke out into a surprisingly impish grin. “It’s okay, really. I don’t want to sleep with you either.”

He laughed outright. “I’m gonna tell my friend you said that,” he said. “He’ll laugh his ass off. I got all the girls in high school, and he’s still mad about it. Which is extra funny because now it’s him they all love.”

She tapped her chin, pretending to think. “Hmm … is he single?”

“No,” Bucky said, thinking of the bruises Steve had been sporting the last time they were in the locker room together. He hadn’t even thought it was possible to bruise Steve for more than five minutes, but Natasha was a resourceful lady. “Very no.”

Laura snapped her fingers regretfully. “Back to the drawing board.”

“Yeah. Me too.” She’d been kidding about Steve, but … he wondered if there was a polite way to ask, in all seriousness, if her roommate was single. After a minute he decided regretfully that there wasn’t.

They exchanged numbers and promises to meet up for coffee as friends, which in his (unfortunately growing) experience had about a 10% chance of actually happening. But hey, she was a nice dame and 10% chances of friendship were still better than zero. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and headed home to see if he could still catch the last episode of Dog Cops.

***

“Soldier, on your three o’clock,” Steve yelled, and threw the shield into a Doombot’s neck. It cut through cleanly and bounced off the street a few feet away.

Bucky caught it on the rebound and slammed it down on the last bot’s head. “Ugh,” he said. “I hate these things. I feel like I’m fightin’ my ugly cousin. Remind me why the Fantastic Four can’t handle them?”

“Something, something, Reed Richards is a giant dick,” Tony supplied, dropping down to hover in front of them. “That’s _is,_ not _has,_ although considering the rest of him is extendable …”

There was a chorus of groans over the comms.

“You’re buying dinner as an apology for giving us all that mental image,” Natasha said.

Clint made a gagging noise. “Ugh, who even wants dinner after that mental image?”

“I always buy dinner anyway,” Tony pointed out. He tipped his helmet to indicate he was listening to something else. “Emergency crews are all set, no civilian casualties and minimal damage, so we’re clear to head out. Last one back to the Tower is a rotten egg!” He pulled his arms in and took off.

“The rest of us are ridin’ together,” Bucky said, irritated. So maybe he was a little competitive, so what?

“Sucks to be you, Tin Man!”

Steve made a face and scanned the sky for the mini-jet. He was maybe a little competitive too. “Hawkeye, ETA?”

“Thirty seconds. And then we’ll see who’s a rotten egg,” Clint muttered.

“News cameras are still on, boys,” Nat reminded them all with a sigh, like she wasn’t the one who’d pulled a knife the last time they tried to play Monopoly. She’d been muttering about capitalist pigs for weeks afterwards.

Steve and Bucky looked at each other. Bucky’s lips twitched. “Yeah, but … it was barely even a fight,” he said, adrenaline still flowing. “We might as well have _some_ fun.”

Steve grinned back and hefted the shield. “Want a lift?” he said, and knelt down.

Clint whooped. “Ten seconds! Pull a Crazy McIvan!”

“For the last time,” Bucky said as he backed up, “we are not calling it that. I ain’t even Irish.”

“Uh, no, duh. Steve is. You’re the Ivan part.”

_“I’m from Brooklyn!”_ he yelled, like that was going to make any difference at all. The jet’s shadow fell over them, and he took a running start and jumped. When his boots hit the shield, Steve shouldered upwards, launching him toward the approaching jet. He flipped in midair and hooked his boots over the edge of the loading door as it opened. Then he reached down with the metal arm and swung Steve up over his head and onto the ramp. The momentum took him into another flip. They both landed on their feet, laughing.

“Punch it,” Steve said, and Clint did, still whooping. Nat sighed again from the co-pilot seat, but Bucky could see she was grinning.

They still landed after Tony did, but it was close. He was gracious enough to give them a golf clap when his hands were out of the suit. “Pep!” he yelled, walking ahead into the penthouse while the rest of them shed their heavy artillery. “Returning heroes in the house! I promised them dinner.”

“Working, Tony!” Pepper called back in a long-suffering tone.

“It’s okay,” a vaguely-familiar female voice said as Bucky followed the rest of them in. He couldn’t see the woman around that brick wall Steve called his shoulders, but the familiarity nagged at him. “The reports aren’t urgent, I can …” She trailed off. “Oh. Wow. You really meant ‘returning heroes,’ huh?”

“I always say what I mean, except at board meetings.” Tony waved a majestic hand. “Darcy, meet the Avengers. Avengers, Darcy Lewis, Pepper’s new assistant.”

Bucky froze. _Wait, did he say …_ “Darcy?” he said, and elbowed Steve aside.

Sure enough, a very familiar gorgeous brunette was standing next to the couch with a stack of papers. He spared half a second to appreciate her blouse and pencil skirt, then realized she looked confused. “Um, yes?” she said.

He realized he was still wearing his goggles, and peeled them off. “Hey, doll. Remember me?”

She almost dropped the papers. But he had to give her credit, she recovered quick. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite Thai food impersonator,” she said, a smile dawning on her face. “You work security, huh?”

He grinned. He couldn’t help himself. He’d been thinking about her for weeks and now here she was, practically in his own damn living room. “Don’t you feel secure?”

“Oh, completely,” she agreed. Her eyes flicked over him, and he didn’t think he was imagining the appreciation in them. “Nice job on that kapow, by the way.” 

He raised a questioning eyebrow, and she waved a hand at the TV behind her. He realized it was replaying footage of his last hit. “Oh, that! Thanks. See, I told you it looked cooler than a regular pow.”

She tipped her head a little in agreement. “And what do you call that one?” she asked, pointing at the new replay of Steve tossing him into the air.

He shrugged. “Boing?”

She threw back her head and laughed, and he felt his grin get wider. That was a hell of a sound.

“And you? How’s the blah blah blah?” he said.

There was that appreciative look again. “Suddenly much less blah.”

“Sorry, do you two know each other?” Steve said.

Bucky remembered that there were other people in the room. A lot of them. Staring.

“Sure,” Darcy said, while he was still struggling for words. “We go way back. He knocked on my door to axe murder me, but he forgot his axe, so he gave me a rose instead. Then he abandoned me for another woman and I’ve been trying to find him ever since.”

There was a brief silence.

“…what?” Steve said.

Bucky met her dancing eyes and winked. “It’s all true. I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“I think one of you is having a stroke,” Tony said, “but I’m not sure which.”

Darcy made a thoughtful face. “You know, I get that all the time. Maybe it’s my face. Speaking of which, Bucky, you’ve got a little something …” she made a smearing gesture under her eye.

He reached up and touched the anti-glare paint under his eyes. “Oh, very funny, doll.”

Clint, who loved to make fun of Bucky’s “eyeliner,” cackled. He offered her a fist bump, and she looked delighted to accept.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Hawkbrain,” Bucky snarled. He wasn’t jealous of a fist bump, he was just … okay, he was a _little_ jealous. He just wanted to touch her. Anywhere. “You try aimin’ a rifle when your own arm keeps blinding you.”

“You say that, but we all know you just like it ‘cause it makes your pretty eyes pop.” Clint batted his eyes exaggeratedly.

Bucky narrowed his. “I don’t hafta take that from a guy who wears purple sunglasses.”

The cackle turned into a glare. “Oh yeah? Well I don’t have to take fashion criticism from a guy who forgot his sleeve today!”

“Why not? You forgot both of yours!”

“Children,” Natasha sighed. She tapped at her phone a couple of times, then made it vanish into wherever the hell she kept it during missions. “Dinner in half an hour for anyone who’s not covered in robot juice.” She flicked a glance at Darcy, then at Bucky. “It’s Thai,” she added innocently.

Tony grinned and ran for the living area. “Last one into the shower is a —”

“No,” the rest of them said, almost in unison, but they also scattered. Sam and Natasha went for the elevator, Steve took the stairs, and Clint hopped onto the counter and swung himself into the vents.

Bucky hesitated, torn between following Steve and staying with Darcy. Pepper took one look between them, winked at Bucky, and followed Tony.

Darcy put the papers down and shot him a shy look. “Well, I guess I should …”

_No no no NO NO._ “Would you like to stay for dinner?” he blurted.

“Would you like to stay forever?” Clint’s echoey voice yelled from the vents.

There was muffled snorting from three directions. He realized that no one had left. His whole team was hiding around various corners watching him make a fool of himself. He slapped a hand over his face and sighed. “You know I can murder you all in your sleep!” he yelled.

“Not if you keep forgettin’ your axe!” Steve yelled back from the stairwell.

Bucky looked at Darcy. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright with suppressed laughter. His first impression was right, she _was_ the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. “Excuse me, doll,” he said. “I have to go murder my best friend real quick, but I’ll come right back.” He swallowed and his voice got softer in spite of himself. “Will you stay?”

“Sure,” she said, and gave him that brilliant smile. “If you ask real nice, I might even help you find your axe.”

“Is that a euphe — _mmph mmph mmph,_ ” Tony said, and Bucky gave silent thanks to Pepper for covering his mouth.

Darcy glanced back and rolled her eyes, then beckoned Bucky over. He obeyed, crossing the room to stand so close he could smell her perfume (vanilla). Then she gestured him down so she could whisper in his ear. His heart pounded. “ _Yes, it is,_ ” she whispered, her breath tickling his neck.

A wave of heat flashed over him, and he turned his head to meet her eyes. 

She raised one eyebrow and smirked. 

“I will be _right back,_ ” he promised, and ran for the stairs.


	8. Will You Greet Her with a Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look, I’ve made a lot of questionable decisions, and I’m not even including the time I tased Thor or that thing with the alien spaceship and the tequila. But,” she added hastily as she saw his mouth open to ask a question, “my point is, getting naked in a panic room with an armed stranger I just met five minutes ago is not going to be one of them.”
> 
> James shrugged. "Fair enough."

_Bramp. Bramp. Bramp._

“Wha — buh — ‘mup. I’m up!” Darcy swatted at her phone, but the blaring didn’t stop.

Then a vaguely-Welsh voice said, “All personnel please report to emergency stations,” and she woke up for real. That wasn’t her alarm clock, that was the emergency siren. The Tower was under attack. She stumbled to her feet and headed for the door. 

After a few steps she paused, looked down, and backtracked to put on a shirt. Then she grabbed her glasses and taser. _Then_ she headed for the door.

It had been made very clear to her on numerous occasions that as a noncombatant, her emergency station was the nearest panic room. She was to go straight there, do not pass Go, do not tase anyone even if they deserve it. Honestly, at this hour of the night she didn’t even want to disobey that order. She lurched down the hall and into the broom closet. Buckets clattered to the ground, and one of the brooms tried to brain her. She gave it a suspicious glare. Broom supervillains were not outside the realm of Weird Shit That Attacks the Avengers.

There was a muffled boom somewhere above her. Thunder, repulsors, or the Hulk merrily a-smashin’? She didn’t know, but it made her forget the broom. She hurried to the back of the closet and punched a code on the keypad hidden behind the roach spray. The light flashed green. After a second, a reinforced titanium door swung open from what looked like an empty wall, and she hustled inside.

And found herself face-to-face with the point of a knife.

She froze, unable to take her eyes off the shiny edge long enough to get a look at the person holding it. Not that it mattered. Could be pretty much anyone around here. As usual when faced with certain death, her mouth went on autopilot. “Um. Hi? Is this panic room full? ‘Cause I really don’t want to go to the one in the men’s bathroom on 43. It’s two floors down and it smells like urinal cakes.”

“Sounds awful,” the person holding the knife said. His voice was unfamiliar: low, a little gravelly, but in a pleasant way. He didn’t sound like he wanted to stab her.

There was another boom. A gentle shower of dust pattered down from the shelves. She winced and tried not to squeak. The guy in front of her sighed, and the knife disappeared. She breathed out, then caught her breath again as something else metal went past her head. The keypad beeped and she heard a hiss as the door sealed itself behind her, locking her in with…

She looked up. Then further up.

_Oh._

Dude was tall, dark-haired, and built like whoa. And Darcy knew what she was talking about: she lived in a Tower full of literal gods and supermen. She’d seen Thor with his shirt off and Captain America in his underoos (some kind of clothes-melting alien slime, don’t ask, it was a weird night). This guy? Easily top five on her list of “Bodies To Die For (Hopefully Not Literally).” Top two if you limited the field to humans.

Although … could you, though? Because he reached up to push a strand of hair out of his eyes, and she realized the metal thing was his hand. He was wearing a black tank top, and she could see that the metal went all the way up to wrap around his shoulder. Were cyborgs fully human?

Was that an offensive question? It felt offensive. She decided not to ask.

He shifted, and the grey sweatpants he was wearing tightened across his thighs. If she looked a little closer, she could probably see … NO.

She bit her lip and jerked her gaze back up to his face, where a pair of ice-blue eyes were watching her with the amused detachment of a cat trying to decide if the small furry thing in front of it was breakfast or a toy. He had a longish, floppy hipster haircut, a dimple in his chin, and a set of cheekbones you could cut yourself on. “Sorry,” he said in that husky voice. “Didn’t mean to scare ya. I just wasn’t expectin’ company.”

“Me either,” Darcy said. She shrugged, and felt a hint of smugness as his eyes traced a similar path to the one hers had taken. Two could play the thin-tank-top game. Especially if those two had both been yanked out of bed at stupid-o’-clock in the morning. “Don’t worry about it,” she added, “if it had been the other way around I’d have tased you, so …”

“ ’Zat so?” His eyes crinkled at the edges like he was trying not to smile.

She made a little face, but nodded. “Kinda notorious for it. I’m Darcy.” She held out a hand.

He flinched back when she moved. It was a tiny motion — if she hadn’t been living around spies and superheroes for so long, she’d wouldn’t have seen it — but it confirmed what she’d already suspected. He wasn’t aggressive, just paranoid.

In her pocket, her other hand relaxed its grip on the taser.

He opened his mouth, then paused for a fraction of a second. Again, not something most people would have caught. “James,” he said firmly, and shook her hand. _Lying,_ her inner Lying Cat reported. Still, so what? He was probably one of Natasha’s spy buddies. Those dudes lied like it was an Olympic sport. Meanwhile, her hand tingled a little when their palms met. She felt a tiny flush creeping up her neck, and his eyes held hers like a searchlight. “ ’S a pleasure,” he purred.

Her stomach lurched. _Ooooh, he’s good. Definitely one of Nat’s friends._ She shifted her weight onto one hip and crossed her arms under her breasts just to even things out. “So can I come in or what?” she asked as his eyes unfocused.

“Huh — oh.” He coughed a little. “Course.” He stepped aside and she saw with envy that he’d had the presence of mind to grab a blanket and pillow on his way out the door. That was hella smart. The panic room had a kind of padded shelf thingy on one side, but she knew from sad experience that it wasn’t very comfy.

“Welp,” she said, and commandeered one corner of his blanket, which made the eye crinkles appear again. “Looks like we’re stuck here for a while.”

“Looks like,” he agreed, settling at the other end of the blanket. She couldn’t help but notice that put his back to the corner so he could see the whole room. The exciting view included a bunch of bare concrete, a sink, a miserable little toilet cubicle with a broken lock, and her. The pillow was at his end too, but he picked it up and offered it to her.

She took it, feeling weirdly touched, and settled it between her back and the wall. “What a gentleman.”

He looked surprised for a moment, then his mouth curved up into like, five percent of a smile. “Ain’t been called that in a while,” he rumbled.

She bit down on the urge to ask what he _had_ been called. The way he was sitting pulled the tank top tight, and then there were the thighs and … long story short, she could think of a few things. Most of them started with ‘oh.’ 

“Any chance of you goin’ back to sleep?” he asked, and she forced her mind back out of the gutter.

“I —“ she said, and had to clear her throat. “I don’t think so.” Another boom echoed overhead, and she flinched. It wasn’t the noise, it was the thought of one or more of her friends at the other end of the noise. “Yeah, no, not a chance. I don’t suppose you brought a book to read.”

He shook his head, making his hair flop into his eyes again. “Sorry.” The look he shot her through the strands seemed almost shy. “I got a pack of cards, though. I play — I was gonna play solitaire.”

“James, you are a man of many layers,” she said, waving her arms in an expansive gesture because it was 3 a.m. and she could.

He snorted. “More than you know, doll,” he muttered.

“What?” She’d heard, she just didn’t get what that meant.

“Nothin’.” He pulled a pack of beat-up cards out of what seemed like thin air — maybe the same pocket dimension he was keeping the knife in — and started to shuffle them. She wasn’t sure if the soft whirring noise she heard was the cards, or his hand. “What do you want to play?”

She shrugged and turned to face him, twisting the blanket underneath her. “Poker?”

His eyes had been fixed on his hands, but they flicked up at that. They looked her over from the top of her messy ponytail to the bottom of her bare feet. She became suddenly aware that she was wearing a paper-thin tank top and a pair of My Little Pony sleep shorts, and … that was it. His mouth quirked up, and _oh,_ that wasn’t even a smile, that was a _smirk._ She felt herself flush. “Strip poker?” he suggested.

“Yeah, right,” she snorted, trying to pretend the idea wasn’t making her pulse pound in very interesting places. “We’re both in pajamas. That’ll be over in like five minutes.”

His eyebrows rose. “And that’s bad because …”

Whoa. Hey. Wow. That was not helping the pulse situation. She wiggled a little, trying to relieve the pressure, then stopped when she realized it was doing the exact opposite. “Look,” she said to herself as much as him, “I’ve made a lot of questionable decisions, and I’m not even including the time I tased Thor or that thing with the alien spaceship and the tequila. _But,”_ she added hastily as she saw his mouth open to ask a question, “my point is, getting naked in a panic room with an armed stranger I just met five minutes ago is not going to be one of them.”

He shrugged. If he was disappointed, she couldn’t tell. “Fair enough.”

“How about Go Fish?” she said, to gloss over the awkwardness and the way her libido was screaming at her. Why was the responsible decision always the one that was no fun…

The smirk flashed again. “Strip Go Fish?” he suggested with a mock-hopeful expression. 

She grabbed the pillow and threatened to hit him with it, and he laughed out loud. It was an awesome, husky chuckle that made her want to say _Yes, yes, forget the ‘Go Fish’ part, let’s just play ‘strip.’_ But instead she swallowed hard and took the cards he dealt her.

“So what do you do around here?” he asked, using his left hand to rearrange the cards in his right.

She was so mesmerized watching the articulation of his fingers that it took her a second to realize he’d been talking. “I — huh?” She blinked, saw his carefully blank expression, and grimaced. “Sorry. My bad. I just think your hand is super neat. I didn’t know we had the technology for that level of articulation. Ton — Iron Man doesn’t have anything even close.” She coughed a little. “I mean, from what I’ve seen. On the news.”

“You think it’s … neat,” he repeated, his voice as blank as his face. Then his eyes crinkled a little and she breathed out. “I didn’t know people used that word anymore.”

She finished arranging her own cards and laid them face-down so she could give him double finger guns. “I’m bringin’ it back.”

The crinkles deepened. Ooh, that was at least 10% of a smile, and they weren’t even talking about getting naked. She felt accomplished. “Sure you are. Got any fives?”

“Go fish,” she said, and stuck her tongue out at him. 

The smile went up to 12%, which added a few more crinkles. Mmm, she did love a good eye crinkle. He drew a card, nodded, and laid down a pair of sevens. “You still ain’t answered my question.”

“What was it again?” She blinked and forced herself to focus on his face instead of his hands. Not that that helped much. “Oh — what do I do? Lab assistant. Pretty boring. It’s mostly data entry.” That was about as much as she was cleared to tell, but people didn’t usually ask questions anyway. Especially when she busted out that offhanded, indifferent tone of voice.

“Hmm,” he said, and she thought she caught a sharp glance from those icy eyes. “If you don’t mind me askin’, what’s a lab assistant doin’ here at three in the morning? In …” His eyes traced her body again, and she prepared to smack him down, but all he said was, “…pajamas.”

She flashed him a sharp fuck-off grin. “Either I live here or I’m participating in the weekly Avengers orgy. Take your pick. Got any threes?”

He extended a card, but didn’t let go of it right away when she pulled. “Weekly, huh? Wouldn’ta thought they’d have the time.”

“Everybody makes the time for a good orgy,” she said. This conversational thread was … not helping with the whole ‘keep your mouth off of his mouth’ situation, but at least he wasn’t asking about things she couldn’t talk about. She gave herself a mental high five for applying Natasha’s lessons on deflection.

His expression of amusement was deepening by the second. “Eights?” he said without looking at his hand, then added, “You always wear My Little Pony shorts to an orgy?”

She was not going to blush. Twilight Sparkle and Rainbow Dash were nothing to be ashamed of. “My corset was in the wash,” she deadpanned, and handed him a card.

He dropped his eyes to the blanket as he laid down the pair, then looked up at her through his eyelashes and made a little _tsk_ sound. “My lucky day.”

She blinked, stunned half by the panty-melting look and half by the words. “Sorry, did you say your _lucky_ day?”

He leaned forward slowly, telegraphing his movements so she could easily stop him if she wanted to. When she didn’t, he used his right hand to flick the hem of her shorts. She could tell he was being very careful not to touch her skin. “They’re cute,” he said simply, and went back to his cards while she tried to pick her jaw up off the floor. “Got any fours?”

“Go fish,” she said weakly. “What …” Her voice caught in her throat a little, and she coughed and tried again. He didn’t look at her, but she could see the edge of a smirk hovering around his mouth. “What do you do around here when you’re not hitting on girls in panic rooms?”

“Not much,” he said. His voice was casual — too casual, there was obviously a story there. “You could say I’m on sabbatical.”

She noticed he’d said that she could say that, not that it was true. Also, he didn’t specify what he was on sabbatical from exactly. So it was probably about as true as her saying her job was data entry when she actually kicked it with the Avengers and ran the lab for the future Queen of Asgard. Data entry was involved … sometimes.

Well, that was fair enough. He was probably a SHIELD agent who hadn’t been cleared for active duty yet. Maybe the arm was new and they needed to get him used to it -- although he certainly didn’t act like he needed any practice. He used it as often and with as much precision as the other one.

Not that she was watching how he used his hands. That would be inappropriate -- hot, but inappropriate. It was just that hypothetically, if she _had_ been watching, she might have noticed that he definitely had a lot of ... dexterity. But she hadn't, because she wasn't.

But he did.

“Sabbatical sounds like a blast,” she said in a tone of complete disinterest, because she understood about clearance and secrets. “Got any twos?”

“Go fish,” he said in the same tone. 

She did, and laid down a pair of tens. “So … read any good books lately?”

He gave an amused snort. “Really? We’re goin’ from orgy fashion to small talk? Okay, sure. I just reread _The Brothers Karamazov._ You?”

“Oh my god, why?” she said. “Russian literature for fun, jeez, no wonder you’re all …” She waved a hand at him, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Charming?” he suggested. “Intelligent? Capable of stamina and a long attention span?”

Dammit, she was blushing again. “Gothy and monochrome,” she countered, laughing a little. “You ass. And for your information, the last book I read was _Design Patterns in Object-Oriented Software,_ so there.”

“For real? For fun?” She nodded, and he grinned. “Okay, doll, you win. You’re the brains, I’m the brawn. Got any sixes?”

She dug one out and handed it over. “Got any grapes?” She snickered at her own joke.

He blinked. “What?”

“Oh! You haven’t heard this one?” She dropped her cards and sat up straight, leaning in a little. He did the same. He didn’t even try to hide the glance he shot at her cleavage, and she didn’t try to hide her answering smile. “Up here, buddy, this is a great joke and you don’t want to miss it.”

“Sorry, doll,” he said, eyes wide with what was probably supposed to be penitence. It wasn’t convincing at all, and the little smile playing at the corners of his mouth didn’t help. “I’m listenin’.”

She gave him a raised eyebrow of disbelief, but let it pass. “Okay, so a duck walks into a convenience store and he asks the guy behind the counter, ‘Got any grapes?’ ” She made the duck’s voice nasal and irritating. Kinda like that one grad student of Jane’s. “The guy says ‘No, we don’t sell grapes, now get out of here!’ ”

“Man, if I had a nickel for every time I heard that when I was a kid,” James muttered.

She grinned at him but didn’t let it disrupt her flow. “About an hour later, the duck comes back. ‘Got any grapes?’ And again the guy says ‘No, I already told you, we don’t sell grapes. Get out and don’t come back!’ ” She looked at her audience and grinned even wider. He was hooked, she could tell: leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, chin resting on his metal palm. “But sure enough, an hour later, the duck comes back.”

“Got any grapes?” he said before she could, imitating the tone perfectly.

“Shh, don’t spoil it!” She tapped him lightly with the pillow. He grabbed it and they had a brief tug-of-war. He won, of course, and settled in again clutching it to his chest. “But yes, that’s what he says. And this time the guy’s completely had it, so he says, ‘Listen you little jerk, if you come in here asking for grapes one more time, I’m going to nail your feet to the floor!’ ”

He gasped, hand over his mouth in exaggerated shock.

She nodded. “The duck leaves,” she said gravely. “But an hour later, he’s back. Before the guy can kick him out, he says, ‘Got any nails?’ And the guy loses his mind and yells, ‘No, goddammit, we don’t sell nails either!’ So the duck says …” She turned her head to one side like a bird and leaned in until they were almost nose-to-nose. _“Got any grapes?”_

James tipped his head back and shouted with laughter. She laughed with him, delighted to get to share her favorite joke with a new victim — uh, audience.

“Got any nails,” he said at last, wiping his eyes. “Oh my god, that sounds just like this pal of mine. Such a pain in the ass, you got no idea.”

“That’s pretty much all of my friends,” she agreed. “And me, not gonna lie.”

“You know, I suspected that about you,” he said, grinning at her. Their eyes caught, and she realized that she was still leaning in just inches away from him. The laughter in his eyes faded into a very different kind of sparkle. “So …” he said, and she was pretty sure his voice had gotten rougher. “What do you want to do now?”

She glanced down at the cards, then back at him, and shrugged. _What the hell, he’s smoking hot and I’m bored with cards anyway._ “Wanna make out?”

His breath hitched and his eyes dilated, so she was pretty sure the answer was yes, but he didn’t move. “I thought you weren’t gonna get naked with an armed stranger you just met five minutes ago,” he said.

She rolled her eyes and held up one finger. “One, we don’t have to get naked. And two,” a second finger, “it’s totally been at least half an hour.”

His mouth curled into that smirk again. “Oh, well in that case,” he said, tossed the pillow aside, and leaned in the last inch to bring his mouth to hers.

Her last coherent thought was _Oh hell yeah._

His lips were soft and warm, the pressure firm, movement just right. She darted out her tongue, and he groaned and opened his mouth. He tasted like cinnamon candies. She made a happy _mmm_ noise and wriggled closer. 

There was a whirring sound, and the next thing she knew, she was seated firmly in his lap with his metal arm wrapped around her waist and the fingers of his other hand buried in her hair. She ran her hands up his back and felt him shudder. His fingers slid over the curve of her waist and dug into her hip. She arched back, gasping for air, and gasped again when his mouth found the sensitive spot under her ear.

“Shirt,” she managed to mutter, sliding her hands up under the hem. Her fingers bumped across his abs. He gave a gasp of his own when she scratched lightly with her nails, then leaned back obediently so she could peel it off over his head. She made another of those happy humming sounds, then paused, looking at the scar tissue on his shoulder and chest.

“’S okay,” he muttered, reaching for the shirt again. “You don’t hafta —”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, putting her hand over his. “I was just gonna ask if it’s okay to touch. Is it sensitive?”

For an instant, the look in his eyes was pure awe. “Not, uh … not really?” He reached across and rubbed at it himself. “Not a lot of feeling right there, but it doesn’t hurt or nothin’. You can touch it if …” He swallowed. “If you want to.” The words were casual, but his expression was raw, vulnerable, like nothing she’d ever seen on a spy before. How recent was the surgery? The scars seemed healed and old, but his eyes didn’t.

Had anyone else touched him this way since …?

This was heavy stuff to get into with a stranger, but hey, these things happened at 3 a.m. The sleep deprivation, the tiny room … it was like a little bubble outside of time, where secrets were safe and nothing hurt. 

Instead of saying something cheesy and probably ruining the moment, she pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then, without breaking eye contact, she leaned down and kissed just as gently along the seam where the metal met his body.

His other hand moved across his face. She was pretty sure he was wiping away tears, but he didn’t say anything, so neither did she. She just kept going, licking her way across his chest and down his abs until they were both breathing hard again. 

She was almost to the top of his sweatpants when he fisted the metal hand in her hair and pulled her back up. She let out a helpless little whimper, because _unf,_ and he grinned. “Oh really?” he said, and tugged a little harder. When she opened her mouth on a gasp, he took it with his.

His hands slid over her, mapping her back, her hips, the curve of her waist. He hadn’t even touched her in any of the fun places — yet — but every nerve in her body felt like it was on fire. When he got to her thigh, he paused and pulled back to give her a quizzical look.

“Is that a taser in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

She snorted. “Oh please, don’t even. I know for a fact you’ve got at least one knife on …” She ran her hands down the outsides of his thighs and felt nothing except a lot of delicious man. “Wait, what? Where did the knife go?”

He smirked. “Trade secret, doll. But feel free to — ah!” She pinched his thigh and he bit his lip. “Feel free to keep lookin’.”

“Maybe I will,” she said, and pushed him. It was like shoving a brick wall, but he humored her and slid down to lay on his back. She laughed, and he blinked, startled. She shrugged. “Nothing’s funny. I’m just a happy-laugher.”

He leaned up to kiss her neck. “So you’re happy?”

“Mmm, hell yeah.” She pressed him back down so she could look at him, all that lovely muscle and skin spread out like a buffet. She even liked the metal arm. It was shiny. “Who wouldn’t be?”

He bit his lip and shook his head, eyelids sweeping down to hide his expression.

Well, that just could not stand. She smoothed her hands across his chest, not pausing on the scars. “Seriously, look at you. You’ve got all this …” she leaned down, her mouth hovering just above his, “… and this …” she kissed her way down his neck while her hands kneaded his thighs, “… and a sense of humor,” she finished, and nipped his collarbone.

He growled and pulled her down hard against him. Her hips dragged across something that was definitely not a taser in his pocket. His head dropped back. “Oh, _sweetheart,”_ he said, his voice wrecked.

Something beeped loudly next to the door.

Before she could even blink, he was on his feet with the knife out, holding her behind him with his metal arm.

“Okay, seriously, where the hell were you keeping that?” She pushed against his arm, but he didn’t humor her this time. It didn’t budge. When he glanced back, the hot blue eyes had gone icy again. “Relax,” she said in a gentler voice. “It’s the intercom. It’s probably one of the Avengers telling us it’s safe to come out.” As she spoke, the sirens stopped. “See? Go answer it. Or let me go and I will.”

His expression didn’t change, but he lowered his arm and let her squeeze past him to the keypad. She hit the button to turn on the microphone.

“City Morgue,” she said, quirking an eyebrow at James’ immobile form. “You stab ‘em, we slab ‘em.”

He didn’t laugh. So much for that sense of humor.

Clint, however, did laugh. “Hey, Darce, you bored yet?”

She touched her swollen mouth and tried to pat down her hair, though he couldn’t see her. “Um, not exactly. What’s happening out there, Hawk Guy?”

“Just another robot uprising,” he said cheerfully, “or as I like to call it, Tuesday. Want to let me in so I can walk you home? The door’s sealed and for some reason my override won’t work.”

“Oh, um, hang on one sec.” She muted the intercom and turned to look at James. “Do you want to walk me back? My place is just down the hall, we could …” her voice trailed off. The icy look had melted, but in its place was something that looked a lot like regret. For the first time all night, she felt cold. “No, right, dumb idea. Of course. This was a panic-room-only kind of deal.”

He made the knife disappear again and pulled her over to him with his flesh arm while the metal one reached past her head to the keypad. “Sorry, doll,” he said, and kissed her very gently.

The lights flickered out, and there was a beep and a hiss behind her. She turned to look instinctively.

“Hi, Darce!” Clint said cheerfully from outside, then stopped as she moved forward into the beam of light from the open door. “Whoa, what happened to you?”

She felt herself go beet red, which hopefully at least sort of covered up the beard burn. “What do you think?” she snapped, annoyed with herself and still mad at James. She looked back to glare at him, and did a double take.

The room was empty.

“Hot date tonight, huh?” Clint said. “Good thing he went home before the robots attacked.” He raised his hand. 

She high-fived it in a numb haze, thinking, _Where the hell …?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where the hell, indeed?
> 
> So excited to be back, I missed you all! Your comments light up my life, make my skin clear, and water my crops.
> 
> More updates very soon! Stay tuned and I love you all.
> 
> ETA 8/26: So my plan here was to under-promise and over-deliver, and I think it worked! Guess what's a full story with Chapter 2 freshly posted! https://archiveofourown.org/works/15806937/chapters/36791028


	9. Songs You Loudly Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look, a girl's gotta do whatever she can to stay awake at 5 a.m. Even if it's a dirty song-and-dance routine.
> 
> That ends with accidentally propositioning an Avenger.
> 
> Oops.

There was nothing good about five thirty in the morning. Darcy Lewis was a scientist … sort of … okay, she was science-adjacent, but still. She’d run the numbers and there were exactly zero point zero things to enjoy about that time of day. Five thirty was too early for brunch, but too late to still be drunk. It was the coldest time of day, the bars were closed but the good coffee shops weren’t open yet, and loud music was frowned upon.

Unless, of course, you were the only person in the Tower because all of the super-people were off doing some kind of world-save-y thing that involved a lot of interstellar data. Which they then wanted you to get up at ass o’clock to collate. Without even offering to bring back donuts. In _that_ case, you listened to whatever goddamn music at whatever volume you might want.

Not that she was bitter.

She downed her first gulp of blacker-than-the-pits-of-Hel (which Thor said was a real place) coffee and sighed. “Jarvis,” she said, “pump the tunes. The ‘Fuck the AM’ playlist please.”

A boppy synth beat started, and she felt the first fledgling beginnings of a smile cross her face as she danced through the lab flicking switches on Jane’s machines.

“Sweat, baby, sweat, baby …” she crooned, “sex is a Texas drought. Volume up, Jarvis.”

“Very good, Miss Lewis,” the AI said, which she knew meant he disapproved. But he turned the volume up, so whatever. 

She buried her face in the coffee mug and hummed her way through most of the verse, only surfacing to triumphantly yell, “I want you smothered, want you covered, like my Waffle House hashbrowns.” She finished the mug just as the chorus kicked in and bobbed her head all the way to the coffee pot.

The volume lowered a little. She glared at the ceiling and turned it back up manually.

“Miss Lewis,” Jarvis said, “the team —” his voice was almost drowned out by the Gang informing her that they were gettin’ horny now, “— inform you — ETA —”

“Six o’clock, and I’d better be ready. I know.” Darcy poured her second cup and made a face, but it cleared as she belted out, “LOVE! The kind you clean up with a mop and bucket!” She dropped into a chair and jacked into one of Jane’s databases, then hopped back up to check the readouts on the thingamajig. “…hieroglyphics, let me be Pacific, I wanna be down in your South Seas …”

She heard a soft hiss, almost like the door opening, but that couldn’t be right, the team wasn’t due back for another — she checked — sixteen minutes. While the thingamajig recalibrated, she did a bump and grind against the corner of the mass spectrometer. Jane hated it when she did that, but Jane was off bumping godly uglies with Thor in Asgard, so whatever. (A lot of her five AM thoughts ended with ‘so whatever.’)

“So if I capsize in your thighs … mmf mmf …” she swallowed another gulp of coffee, “… you sunk my battleship.” She slammed the cup down and grinned. This was her favorite part. Putting on a thick Brooklyn accent, she wiggled her hips and sang to the mug, “Please turn me aw-wn, I’m Mister Caw-ffee with an automatic dri —”

Then she raised her head and looked straight into a pair of unfamiliar blue eyes.

“—p,” she finished with a pop into the sudden silence.

There in the doorway, metal hand braced against the frame, was the one and only Bucky Barnes, AKA the newest Avenger, AKA six feet of leather-covered bionic hottie. AKA the only person in the tower she hadn’t met. Last but not least, AKA a nice boy from the 1940s who was definitely not prepared for the Bloodhound Gang … or her. He didn’t say anything, but his eyebrows hit the roof, and his mouth made a silent ‘O.’

For a second they gave each other identical deer-in-headlights stares. Darcy wasn’t sure what to say in this situation. ‘Sorry, didn’t see you there’ seemed … insufficient, but ‘Sorry I accidentally propositioned you by comparing myself to a kitchen appliance’ was way too specific. What she finally said was, “Um?”

“As I was trying to tell you, Miss Lewis, the team made excellent time over the Pacific and their ETA was moved up by twenty minutes,” Jarvis said, sounding smug as only a processor and a set of vocal circuits could. “I believe Sergeant Barnes is here to give you their preliminary data.”

At the sound of his name, the man in the doorway jumped a little bit. To her shock, his cheeks flushed. He dropped his eyes to the floor and pretty much shoved a data stick at her with his right hand.

“Uh — thanks,” she said, and took it. Before she could do anything else, he nodded once and disappeared back out the door so fast it left after-images on her eyes. She imagined him leaving a Bucky-shaped hole in the hallway wall if the elevator didn’t come fast enough.

She poured a third cup of coffee in thoughtful silence.

“Welp,” she finally said, settling in the chair. “Cross ‘Corrupting a national icon’ off the bucket list and crank up the music again, J.” She thought about it. “Um — maybe not that song though.”

“Just as you say,” Jarvis agreed. “Perhaps something more like this.”

A beat came through the speakers, then a vaguely familiar synthesizer riff. The singer crooned, 70s-style, but Darcy’s sleepy brain couldn’t put it all together until: “Baby come back …”

The little shit.

***

“Hey Steve,” Darcy said in the elevator a few days later, “can I ask you a question about your sidekick?”

Steve yanked his head out of the unmarked file he’d been reading and gave her a blank look. “My what?”

“Sidekick,” Darcy said impatiently. “The Robin to your Batman.” He still looked blank. “The Sam to your Frodo? The Tin Man to your Dorothy? Help me out here, I don’t have any older references than Wizard of Oz.”

For a second she thought he wasn’t going to answer, then comprehension dawned. He went from confused to unimpressed. “You mean Bucky,” he said flatly. “He’s not my sidekick.”

“Okay, then, your partner,” Darcy said, impatient. She so did not care about the inner workings of their superhero club. “The Thelma to your Louise. The Butch Cassidy to your Sundance Kid.” Yikes, wait, both of those were really depressing. “The Chewbacca to your —”

Steve made a sharp cutting gesture in the air. “I get it, Darce,” he said. Then he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose briefly. “If it’s the question I think it is, the answer is no, and tell Tony he needs to stop taking bets on it, we talked about this.”

She blinked. The elevator stopped and she absently followed him down the hall towards the common kitchen. “Okay, it’s not, but now I’m hella curious what that question is.”

He gave her a wary look that said he wasn’t going to satisfy her curiosity. That was okay. Tony would. “So what did you want to ask about Bucky?” he said. He tossed the file down on the corner of a table and she absently pushed it back as she passed. Being a superhero-minder was like working with toddlers in that you got really twitchy about things being too close to the edge.

“Oh! Right.” She tried to think of a polite way to put it, and then gave up and embraced her true self: blunt and awkward. “Isn’t he supposed to be a legendary ladies’ man?”

He pulled a shake out of the fridge and and gave her another of those wary glances. “You sure this isn’t the same question?” he muttered, then added at a normal volume, “I don’t know about legendary. He did better than me, but then, so did rocks.” He gave her a wry smile. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged and messed with the handle of a nearby coffee mug. “I think I freaked him out. He came in the other day after your mission, while I was … um. Hmm.” She tried to think of a Cap-compatible way to say it. As the pause went on, Steve’s face became more and more expressionless. “I was singing along to a pretty dirty song,” she finally decided. “I might have sorta … accidentally sung some of the lyrics to him.”

Steve’s shoulders relaxed. He tried to keep his face still, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “Did you,” he said in a strangled voice. “And what did he do?”

“Shoved the memory stick into my hand and ran away,” Darcy said. Steve’s eyes popped wide, and she grimaced. “I kinda figured it was the 40s thing. But then I thought, surely not if he was such a player back in the day? I mean, I know things have changed, but I feel like asking him to turn me on like Mr. Coffee wasn’t as bad as…” She stopped, because Steve was doubled over laughing.

“I …” he gasped after a minute, flapping his hand at her, “I’m not … laughing at you. Just … I’m imagining his _face_ …” After a minute, he lifted his head and tried to school his expression. It almost seemed like he was looking past her, but when she turned her head, there was nothing there except an empty hallway. “I don’t think you need to worry about it, Darce,” he said with a terrible attempt at his usual Captastic you-can-trust-me face. “We weren’t choir boys. It’d take a lot more than a joke about M-Mr. Coffee,” his voice wavered again, “to make Buck upset.”

“You sure?” Darcy said dubiously. “Because he looked like I’d hit him in the face with a crowbar.”

That almost broke Steve again. He had to take a deep breath in and exhale while staring at the ceiling before he could respond. “I don’t think it was because he was offended,” he said very slowly and carefully. “But you should probably ask him.”

She made a face, hoping it looked sarcastic and not how she really felt, which was kind of sad. “I would, but he’s kind of a ghost. Like, I don’t know if he sees me coming and leaves or we’re just never in the same room at all.”

Now that she thought about it, had the coffee mug been warm when she started fiddling with it? She poked it again, sneakily, but she couldn’t tell.

He shook his head. “Yeah, he does that sometimes. I’ll pass the message along, I’ve got a meeting with him in a few minutes.” His eyes flicked past her, but again, when she followed his glance, there was nothing. “Sparring, I mean. I’ve got a sparring session.”

“Oookay,” she said, unable to shake the feeling that he was being super shady. “Well, thanks for the pep talk. I won’t send your bestie any ‘Sorry I offended your modesty’ flowers or anything.”

Steve choked. “I will pay you cash money to do it,” he said fervently. “Make sure there’s a card and write it real big so Tony will see it.”

In spite of herself, Darcy grinned. “You are the worst,” she told him over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “Tony tries to pretend it’s him, but I know your secret now. Worst!”

“And proud of it!” he yelled after her. She could hear him laughing, loud and raucous, all the way back to the elevator.

***

“Morning, Jarvis,” she said the next day. “More collating today, so we’re definitely going to need some sick beats. Any suggestions?”

Jarvis hummed thoughtfully, which was a neat trick considering he didn’t have vocal cords. “Would you like to try the new playlist?”

She jerked her head up from the third attempt at her (extremely complicated, why Tony why) email password. “What new playlist? I haven’t made one since Hydra Can Suck a Bag of Dicks, and that was months ago.”

“Sergeant Barnes requested I add one to your files.”

Darcy could never quite get out of the habit of looking up when she talked to the AI. Now she damn near fell out of her chair craning back to stare at the acoustic tiles. “Sergeant _Barnes_ did?” Her neck twanged, protesting the angle, and she lowered her head a little bit and rubbed at it. “Are we talking about the same Barnes? Tall, metal arm, wears a lot of leather? Can’t tell if he hates my guts or is terrified of me?”

“I couldn’t speculate about Sergeant Barnes’ opinion on you, Miss Lewis. But in all other specifics, yes, I believe that is the person I’m referring to.” Ugh, she hated it when he got extra British.

“And he made me a playlist?” She couldn’t get over this. Could. Not. “Like, on a computer?”

“He has requested me to inform anyone who asks about his computer skills that …” Jarvis paused, then another voice came through the speakers. This one was low, pleasantly rough, and very, very annoyed.

_“I ain’t a goddamn fossil, I was probably using the fuckin’ things before they were born. Not all of us pulled a Sleeping Beauty for the whole damn century, all right?”_

That was … a surprisingly sexy voice with a finely-tuned appreciation for profanity. She tried to put it together with the blushing face she’d seen, but couldn’t make them mesh. “Huh,” she said at last. “And I didn’t even get him flowers.” Then she shook it off and went back to her screen. “Maybe he could help me with this stupid password, then.”

On the fifth try, it finally took, and she whooped and did a little impromptu chair spin.

“It’s collatin’ time!” she said, then heard herself and slumped. “Aww … okay. It’s collatin’ time. What’s on that playlist anyway? Anything good?”

“Shall I put it up on your screen?” Jarvis suggested.

“Sure.” She leaned in, interested, as the first title popped up. It was ‘Sorry’ by Beyonce. “Interesting choice. I wouldn’t have pegged him for a Beyonce guy.” She started to scroll down. “Flock of Seagulls? How does that even —” Then she stopped, went back to the top, and scrolled down again, slowly.

**Sorry** \- Beyonce  
**I Ran** \- A Flock of Seagulls  
**Just So You Know** \- Assuming We Survive  
**It Ain’t You** \- Squirrel Nut Zippers  
**Don’t Know What To Tell Ya** \- Aaliyah  
**I’m A Mess** \- Bebe Rexha  
**Everybody Knows** \- Concrete Blonde  
**I Did Something Bad** \- Taylor Swift  
**Something Really Bad** \- Dizzee Rascal  
**That Don’t Make Me a Bad Guy** \- Toby Keith  
**Give Me a Try** \- The Wombats

Darcy laughed aloud. “Did he just write me an apology note using song titles instead of talking to me?” She grinned at the list, feeling oddly warm. “Wow, and I thought I was a disaster human. That’s just … a whole other level. Okay, Jarv, play it.” She cracked her knuckles and rolled her shoulders as the beat to ‘Sorry’ started up. “Let’s collate.”

The playlist was actually kind of great. Nuts, all over the place, and clearly chosen for titles rather than smooth transitions … but great.

“Any response, Miss Lewis?” Jarvis asked when the final strains of Toby Keith faded.

Darcy paused over her spreadsheets and thought about it. “Sure, J. Tell him — no, wait. He wants to communicate in song titles, fine, we’ll communicate in song titles. Tell him I’m formulating a response, and open up a blank playlist.” 

“Certainly.”

She picked up her iPod and started scrolling through it, then paused and gave her spreadsheets a gimlet eye. They glared right back at her, full of really boring but potentially world-saving data. 

She heaved a sigh. Not all heroes wore capes. “Hold that thought. I’ll have to work on it later. Right now I need to collate, which means I need more coffee. The good kind. Put the Winter Hottie’s playlist on my iPod?”

“Already done.”

“You’re the best, J.” She plugged in her earbuds and headed for the pretentious-yet-delicious espresso machine in the common kitchen. The Beyonce was a little downbeat for her mood, so she scrolled down a bit. “Let’s get into something really bad,” she sang as she pulled the shots. “Love me, baby, love me —”

She didn’t know what made her look up. Couldn’t have been a noise, because Dizzee Rascal was still blasting in her ears. Maybe it was a movement in the corner of her eye, or just the feeling of someone looking at her. Either way, she turned her head in time to see Barnes framed in the doorway. His hair was down and he’d traded the leather for a dark blue t-shirt. It was … oh wow, yeah, it was a good look.

“— love me bad.” She didn’t take out the headphones, just raised an eyebrow and waited for him to run.

Instead, one corner of his mouth turned up. Did he recognize the song? She didn’t think he would have listened to them — but he must have because then he mouthed, perfectly in time with the music, _“I love it when the good girls act so bad.”_

Her eyebrows hit the roof.

He gave a little, disarming shrug, saluted with two fingers, and walked away before she could react.

She stared after him. All of a sudden the voice and the face went together perfectly. Also … “Wait, is he _flirting_ with me using song titles?” Her milk boiled over with a hiss, and she scrambled for a towel to wipe it up, muttering as she went. “What. A. Disaster. Human.”

Back in the lab, she looked at her iPod again, then at the blank playlist Jarvis had opened on one of her monitors.

“But really,” she murmured, “which of us is the disaster? Him for doing it? Or me for wanting to flirt back?”

“Did you need something, Miss Lewis?” Jarvis said.

She took a slug of coffee and went back to her spreadsheets. “A whole lot of therapy, J. Also, a database of song titles. It’s gonna be a long day.”

***

**Don’t Worry Baby** \- The Beach Boys  
**It’s Not Your Fault** \- New Found Glory  
**When You Walk in the Room** \- Jackie DeShannon  
**Early in the Morning** \- Vanity Fare  
**Find Me** \- Kings of Leon  
**Porn Star Dancing** \- My Darkest Days  
**Shock to Your System** \- Tegan and Sara  
**Panic & Run** \- P. O. D.  
**I Promise** \- Radiohead  
**If We Ever Meet Again** \- Timbaland  
**No Surprises** \- Radiohead

***

Tony barged into the Avengers staff meeting the next day like his ass was on fire. “Who the hell introduced America’s favorite grandpas to P.O.D.?” he demanded.

Bruce looked blank. Clint cackled. Natasha shrugged, and Darcy did her best to mirror her look of utter disinterest.

“What are you so upset about?” Steve said, coming in behind him. “They have some interesting lyrics. And the beats are nice and fast, it really helped keep up the pace during our workout. Right, Buck?”

Darcy tried to keep her eyes down, but she couldn’t help it: they rose on their own. Bucky had slid in behind them as silently as a shadow. He had on a worn, soft-looking sweatshirt and jeans with holes in the knees. His hair was tied back and still wet from a shower. His eyes flicked over and met hers, just for a second.

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was even sexier in person. “Good for the heart rate.”

“That porn star song was pretty good, too,” Steve said. His blue eyes radiated pure innocence, but Darcy wasn’t fooled — she already knew he was the worst. Plus, Bucky’s unholy smirk gave them both away.

Tony, as they both must have known he would, went off the rails. “What — I — no. Just no. That is just wrong. From now on you’re on a strict diet of Glenn Miller and, I don’t fucking know, Billie Holliday. The last thing we need is the press hearing that Captain America is a fan of music about porn stars.”

“I think it was actually about a stripper,” Bucky said helpfully.

Tony squawked, and Darcy almost choked. She covered it with a sip of water, but got another of those fleeting glances from Bucky as he sat down. He winked. She choked for real.

And to think, she’d thought he was a nice 40s boy who was scandalized by her dirty lyrics. No wonder Steve had laughed himself sick.

Tony rounded on her at the sound. “Ah-ha! Lewis! I should have known it was you.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose and resigned herself to her fate. “Considering I’m the only person around here who listens to music recorded after 1985, and you’re supposedly a genius? Yeah, I’d say you should have known. Now can we get down to business, or …”

“Can we?” Tony said. He flung his arms wide. “Or did you have anything else inappropriate you wanted to share with our oldest and most vulnerable citizens?” He pointed dramatically at Steve and Bucky.

Steve sighed. Bucky gave Tony the shiny metal finger.

Ugh. She shouldn’t have put the ‘or’ in there. Or phrased it as a question. He picked up on that stuff like a shark on chum. Why, why, _why_ did he have such an aversion to getting work done? And how had Pepper put up with it for so long? If she didn’t shut him down, this meeting was going to take _hours._

She thought about her options, then looked him dead in the eye. “Lots of things. Do you want the list organized alphabetically, or by level of athletic ability?”

It was Bucky’s turn to choke on his water. Everyone else went dead silent.

She picked up the briefing packet in front of her and tapped it on the table. The click of paper against wood was loud in the silence. “You’re all welcome for those mental images. Now shut the fuck up so I can brief you on the geopolitical landscape.”

They did.

She risked a glance under her eyelashes at Bucky a minute or two later. He was giving her that crowbar-to-the-face look again. What had Steve said about it? ‘I don’t think it was because he was offended.’ Which okay, he’d probably know, but then why … 

Their eyes met, and a corner of Bucky’s mouth curled into the same smirk he’d given her yesterday in the kitchen. Then his lips pursed in a silent whistle of approval.

Oh. _Oh._

Okay then. She gave herself ten points for badassery and tried to pretend she wasn’t blushing.

Towards the end of the meeting, while Tony and Clint were arguing about boomerang arrows for the 5,000th time, an alert popped up on her phone. _Playlist downloaded._

She glanced at Bucky. He was looking down, messing with his own phone, but there was a trace of a smile on his face. She thought about the look in his eyes and felt her own mouth curving up a bit as she tapped on the notification.

**I Knew You Were Waiting (For Me)** \- Aretha Franklin  
**Nobody Told Me** \- John Lennon  
**How Beautiful You Are** \- The Cure  
**The First Time I Ever Saw Your Face** \- Roberta Flack  
**I Lost It** \- Lucinda Williams  
**I’ll Make It Up to You** \- Imagine Dragons  
**Let Me** \- Zayn  
**Buy U a Drank** \- T-Pain 

She felt her face get hot again. This time when she looked up, he was looking back, a question in his eyes.

She scrolled through her phone until she found what she was looking for, then tapped out a silent message to Jarvis. A second later, Bucky’s phone lit up with a download notification for a single song.

**Smooth** \- Santana

He looked at her again, eyebrows raised, not even trying to be subtle about the question.

She nodded.

He grinned, face transforming from scary-hot to goofy-hot, and she was suddenly 100% sure that saying yes was the right decision. If he’d been nothing but a total badass, she didn’t know what they would have talked about — but the socially awkward dude with the eye crinkles? Yeah, no problem.

“You are a disaster human,” she told him, not caring when the others stopped to stare at them.

He chuckled. “Least I don’t go around comparing myself to kitchen implements, sweetheart.”

Steve made a surprised noise of understanding, and then he was grinning too. The rest of the team looked from one of them to the other in confusion.

“Did we miss something?” Natasha said. “I feel like we missed something.”

Darcy shrugged, trying and failing to make her expression nonchalant. The goofy smile kept twitching at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, nothing much,” she said fake-carelessly.

Bucky nudged her foot with his under the table. “Yeah,” he agreed, and winked at her. “Just a shared appreciation of music.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out to my teenage self, who tried to court _several_ different people via mix CD and never ever (ever) had it end this well. I got zero of the lovers but I still have all of the CDs, which honestly in retrospect was probably the best possible outcome.
> 
> If you want to listen to these playlists, you can, but be warned: I picked the songs 100% for the titles, and some of them are Not Good. 
> 
> I know this because I listened to every single one, plus a bunch of others that didn't make the cut. I can't even imagine what this is going to do to my YouTube suggestions, guys. Shit's about to get weird.


	10. Whose Bullet Slips Into Your Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Always bring extra ammo to a robot uprising. Unless there's a beautiful stranger around who can share.

Another day, another robot uprising.

The Winter Soldier, alias Bucky Barnes, crouched behind a pile of broken concrete and took aim at one of the robots they’d started calling ‘queens’: a larger, round shape at the center of a swarm of small sharp-bodied bots. The bullet cut through two of the small bots and lodged in the weak spot at the center of the queen’s blobby body. She — could he call it she? — wavered and fell, and so did all the little ones nearby.

“Swarm is down,” he said into his comm link. “Repeat, swarm is down. Moving to —”

“Hold tight, Soldier,” Steve told him, and Bucky sighed. There was a chunk of concrete digging into his knee, and the weak January sun was warming up the opposite side of the street while this side stayed freezing. “You’ve got another swarm coming at you up 32nd Street. And — wait — and one coming down 12th Avenue.”

“Aw, shit,” Bucky said.

“Language,” Steve snapped.

Tony snickered. “I told you he even does that to his boy-toy, Romanoff.”

“And I told you that Barnes is going to shoot you if you keep calling him Rogers’ boy-toy,” Natasha said, sounding a little out of breath. Metal shrieked in the background of her channel.

Bucky rolled his eyes at all of them, though they couldn’t see it. “Sorry, Cap,” he drawled. “I meant, aw _fuckin’_ shit.”

“Better,” Steve said, a grin in his voice, and Tony squawked indignantly. “SHIELD forces are pinned down over by Central Park, but the FBI says they have people in your area, so keep your eyes peeled for backup and try not to shoot them.”

“It was _one time,”_ Bucky said, “and that guy was an asshole, so I don’t even — incoming.” He shot down one of the little sharp robots, clearly a scout, and peeked around the edge of the pile to see if he could spot the queen yet.

This one was smarter, which was worrisome: she(?) sent all the little bots ahead to peck at him while she hung back out of range. He wished he’d brought his rifle, but the robots were too small, too fast, and too damn _many_ for sniping to do much good. Even Clint was at street level on this one.

He sighted and shot, again and again. In the back of his head, where he tracked ammo, an alarm started to nag at him. He’d brought four clips, gone through one before they figured out to aim at the queens, two more taking down the last five swarms, and now this one was running low. That left …

Click.

Well, shit. That left none.

“Avengers, I am out of ammo. Repeat, out of ammo,” he said. “I need —” He peeked around the edge again. “Aw, hell. I need backup so I can fall back to the resupply station. Does anyone copy?”

“Copy,” Steve said, but Bucky could tell from his tone there was nothin’ doing. “I’m fully engaged with the swarm on Wall Street. Iron Man, can you —”

“Little busy!” Tony snapped, and Bucky saw something explode a few streets away.

“Hey! Hey, you,” an unfamiliar voice said, not on the comm, and Bucky jumped. There was a woman crouched in a doorway about ten feet away. She looked like a civilian: long dark hair and pink lipstick, wearing jeans and a hat with a big floppy flower on it. The way she was holding her gun, though, said otherwise. “You shooting a Glock 17?”

“I was,” Bucky admitted cautiously, and ducked as a laser blew a chunk out of the concrete next to his head.

She leaned out of the doorway and fired, and the blasts stopped. He raised his eyebrows a little, impressed. Then she fumbled in the pocket of her sweater. “Here,” she said, and tossed him a full clip.

He caught it. “Thanks,” he said, surprised, and tapped his comm. “Avengers, cancel that, I am resupplied and ready to go. Hey,” he added to the girl, “I owe you one.”

She grinned at him, sharp and fierce, and he bit his lip because yeah, he wouldn’t mind seeing that smile under other circumstances. “Don’t mention it,” she said, and then touched her own ear. “On it, boss,” she said to someone on the other end of a comm. She hopped up, checked her six, and winked at him. “See you around, handsome.”

“Later, sweetheart.” Bucky winked back. He snapped the new clip in and laid down cover for her while she headed down 32nd in the direction of the other swarm Steve had mentioned. Under the sound of gunshots, he whistled softly to himself.

_That is a hell of a woman. Wish I got her name._

***

“The Avengers and SHIELD forces took down a total of eleven swarms centered here, here, and here. The FBI took down four more centered here and here,” Fury said, glaring around the debrief room like they had personally disappointed him by allowing the FBI to get a shot in.

Bucky wasn’t worried. They’d done a good job, with minimal losses, and anyway that was Fury’s normal expression. Bucky had seen him glare at a ham sandwich in the mess the other day.

“We believe the robots are coming up from the sewer entrances,” Fury continued, “which suggests an underground base of operation. That means that we,” he glared around the room again, “are going to need to get our feet dirty.”

There was a chorus of groans. Steve made a face. Natasha and Clint said “Not it,” at the same time and glared at each other.

“Since SHIELD doesn’t currently have the forces for an operation on this scale, and since they already pitched in, we will be cooperating with the FBI on this one.” Fury stepped back and gestured to someone waiting in the doorway. “Agent Lewis here will be our liaison. I expect you all to play nice and share your toys. That means _you,_ Barnes.”

Bucky stared at the woman who’d just walked in. She’d ditched the jeans and hat for a black suit and heels, but it was definitely his friend from the doorway. Her tailored jacket showed off curves the loose sweater had only hinted at. Steve gave a low cough, and Clint whistled.

He reached for his Glock. Everyone in the room stiffened —( _Jeez, you shoot a guy ONE TIME_ ) — but he ignored them. Instead he popped out the clip, put it on the table, and slid it across to her. The room was so quiet the tiny swish of metal across wood sounded like a fire alarm.

She caught it, winked, and tucked it away in her jacket.

He held her gaze and let his mouth curve into a slow smile. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem, boss,” he said.

“What in the unholy hell —” Fury began, then shook his head. “I don’t even want to know.”

Agent Lewis shot Bucky that sharp-edged grin again. Suddenly, he was feeling _very_ good about inter-agency cooperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting SO LONG to post this one, guys, you have no idea. I wrote it in one sitting in October and it's just been sitting on the hard drive politely waiting its turn while every chapter before it balloons into a giant 25K+ epic.
> 
> ps. I haven't mentioned this yet because it's not ready to release to your eyeballs, but Claim Your Heart AKA the assassin!Darcy AU is clocking in at 45K words and it's only maybe 2/3 done. Plus I have at least 2 future chapters I'm already expanding into full stories before I even post them. 
> 
> Remember that time I wrote a summary that said these fics were going to be short? Wasn't that hilarious?


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